


Wayward Wolf

by ekrolo2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Curse Breaking, F/M, Mentor/Protégé, Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Westerosi Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 92,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25087162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekrolo2/pseuds/ekrolo2
Summary: The year following the war's end was the best he'd had in nearly a decade. Ciri was no longer hounded by men and elves, Yennefer's reputation was restored and Geralt was back to doing what he did best: simple Witcher's work. Kill the monster and get paid. No more conspiracies or prophecies to ensnare him. He should've known it wouldn't last long. Post-Witcher 3 & Hearts of Stone.
Relationships: Aerys II Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 25
Kudos: 150





	1. Chapter 1

A welcoming breeze swept through the pine forest of Groundcherry, not too warm or too cold. Perfect for the retreating winter, whose snowfall had already melted away and a sign of the spring to come. The healthy trees rose dozens of feet into the air, letting just enough of the comfortable early morning sunlight to slip through the cracks and pleasantly shine down. The migrating bird species already began their reclamation, singing cheerfully in every possible direction. The predators who could threaten or kill man were elsewhere, giving off the impression of a vast but safe forest.

Geralt knew better than to believe that. He'd spent most of his life traversing through such places, living there, sleeping, eating, and hunting. He knew full well of the dangers man, monster, and mother nature alike could prepare for any poor unsuspecting fool willing to lower his guard. In this case, it was a monster keeping him tense. Taking in his surroundings, examining their most minute details. Such as torn branches, stamped over grass, claw or boot prints, and most tellingly of all in this instance: droplets of blood. All of which were present in abundance.

Though, the Katakan had little reason to mask the trail back to its lair when one took account of all the facts. The nearby village of Zrinski, home to just under one hundred people, was not only situated along the northernmost edge of the former kingdom of Sodden and the Groundcherry forest but also very close to a long-abandoned mine of the same name. According to the village's alderman, the Zrinki Mine was built over a century past. For the first twenty years of its existence, it served as a lucrative source of iron deposits. That was when the village came very close to growing into a key trading post. Until the deposits ran out and with it, most interest in Groundcherry forest.

Occasionally, some entrepreneurs seeking to rekindle the mine would arrive, boast of having a surefire means of letting the iron run again only to quit weeks into the endeavor and never to return. The Nilfgaardians were, as far as the village people knew, the last force to attempt this and quickly realized there was naught to be found in the mine and promptly left the Zrinski people alone.

Yet as Geralt walked on foot, having already left Roche behind in the village lest the Katakan tries something to it, the closer he came to the entrance of the mine, the more he knew it recently acquired some other residence along with the vampire. Alongside the occasional claw marks standing prominently out, tracks belonging to people were present as well. A score of grown men wearing boots of varying quality and one of whom probably had a hole judging by how malformed his tracks were in contrast to his comrades.

These tracks were far older than the Katakan's, more worn out by time and exposure to the elements. According to the alderman, none from the village bothered to go to the mine. Venture far enough only to hunt game. Even when disaster and tragedy struck them, Geralt had arrived quickly by happenstance before any angry and foolish search party mob went into the forest to find the culprit.

The boot tracks in-question did not reach the village or come from it. Instead, they came from the direction of the mine, southeast of the only residence for miles and miles. Judging by the lack of horse hooves or cart tracks, Geralt doubted they were merchants. There were no women or children present with the party, he would've spotted their trails already. If Dandelion were present, the Witcher would no doubt hear of some extravagant, implausible, and vaguely amusing explanation to their identity.

Geralt guessed they were brigands, most likely fleeing from the Yaruga down south and whatever punishment the Nilfgaardian's were ready to impose upon them. And it mattered little anyway, for they were most assuredly dead. The scant but prominent droplets of blood, which went to the same place the boot prints came to and from left little room to interpret this band of strangers' fate differently. Katakan's, particularly long slumbering and recently awoken one's weren't about to pass over a meal. Even if their preference, in this case, skewed younger.

Like the gaping maw of a lumbering beast, the Zrinski Mine came to the view, the small clearing which once surrounded its entrance mostly reclaimed by nature with lumps of thick, healthy-looking grass scattered about it. The path connecting it to the village proper was barely identifiable, the remnants of its iron gate hung loosely to the side, croaking miserably from its rusted hinges left and right in the breeze.

It was also the spot where Geralt found the largest puddle of blood thus far. Just fifteen feet from the entrance, the substance most definitely came from a grown man, no child was abducted from the village. No child could bleed such an amount. From the crushed grass, finger-like trails clawed into the ground, the Witcher guessed one of the party managed to flee from the mine only for the Katakan to attack him from behind and drag him kicking and screaming back into its depths.

Geralt ascertained the sun's position and was pleased to see it was not yet noon. He had time to prepare still and promptly went about doing so. First, he rechecked the Moon Dust bombs hanging off his leather belt, within reach at all times, and capable of removing the vampire's invisibility. He didn't have any bombs to neutralize its regenerative properties or oil for his Cat School blade to carve its flesh away. However, the midday sun was fast approaching its zenith. Even a vampire hiding away in the depths of the Earth was weakened.

The blade itself would serve him well, as it had already. Hatori had outdone himself with the steel and silver sword pair, calling it a parting gift once Geralt and Ciri set out on the Path almost a year ago. For two weeks, the swordsmith poured all of his knowledge and skill into the blades, and for any warrior, nevermind a Witcher, they were an achievement. Strong enough to weather a strike from a sledgehammer yet light and perfectly balanced, they both cleaved through flesh, hide and armor with next to no resistance. Their already potent cutting power was intensified by a series of Dwarven runes that glowed and dimly pulsated when Geralt took hold of them.

Next was his crossbow, capable of firing two shots before reloading and with a series of specially ordered, silver-tipped bolts also crafted by Hatori. The projectiles were capable of going in and out of a smaller monster with relative ease. A Katakan was made of sturdier stuff, which did not work to its advantage. The bolts would doubtlessly remain inside whatever body part Geralt fired them into, and the vampire would have to claw its own flesh to pieces just to remove them. Still, given the speed of his prey, reloading it wouldn't be possible. It was fortunate then that Geralt also had some silver, throwing daggers on hand.

Then came the more unpleasant part of his preparation: the Black Blood. Unlike many others, this one did not serve to enhance a Witcher's existing abilities. It was made to ensure that if a blood-sucking fiend won the battle, their next meal would be the last, poisoning them so severely death was certain.

Geralt had no intention of dying, of course, but he wasn't about to let this monstrosity terrorize the people of Zrinski any more than it already did. Perhaps it was finally getting Ciri and Yennefer back, though they were separated again for now, which made him empathize with the plight of the parents. The distraught mothers and wrathful fathers who went to sleep, thinking their sons and daughters were safe only to find them pale, cold, and drained of their blood the following morning.

Yes, he would enjoy killing this particular monster. If he couldn't accomplish that, get some satisfaction of making the bastard choke on his leftovers. The Black Blood left a sour, nauseating taste in his mouth. The effects of the second potion, the Blizzard, were far more potent. Though it tasted sweeter, it also left Geralt dazed for a few moments as though someone punched him hard across the face.

A steady series of deep, controlled breaths did away with the sensation, his heartbeat slowing down almost as much as his sensory perception did. All about, the world seemed to almost halt before his very eyes. The rustling of a single grass taking ages worth of time to sway in the wind, the shadows cast by the overhead sun freezing in place. To fight against a blindingly swift creature like the Katakan, with claws capable of carving through even the finest of armors in a single swipe, there was no better potion for a Witcher.

The Cat potion was the last he drank, dilating his pupils to such a degree his eyes resembled nothing but thick, black sockets. The world around Geralt changed again, becoming a grating, overly bright pestilence on his eyesight. Until he entered the cave that was, one hand wielding the silver blade and the other pulsating with the faintest of magical energy, ready to expel an Igni at a moment's notice.

Stepping into the cave with measured, quiet steps, Geralt took a moment to enjoy the welcoming pitch blackness inside and began his downward trek to the Katakan's lair. The unmistakable claw marks left behind by the poor sods it slaughtered were proof it was. All about, through the minutes upon minutes spent in the darkness, Geralt spotted bits of fresh, human flesh littering the ground. Weapons of decent enough craft lying abandoned on the floor, along with digging equipment which was not rotten from decades of abandonment and disuse.

Evidently, the bandits came for the cave, perhaps hoping to find some leftover means of earning coin. And if that didn't work, put the village to the sword. Fate had other plans for them. The settlement of Zrinski rarely saw anything worse than a bear or wolf pack come near it, so the Katakan was not an ever-present threat but a recent arrival. Or more likely, the beast arrived long ago. The new arrivals disturbed its lair, thus sealing their fate and of several children.

Their disturbance must have been quite egregious indeed. Katakan's do not mutilate their victims, preferring to target specific spots in the body and are even known to frequently let their weakened victims live. More than likely the men dug their way into the vampire's lair and began prodding around its inevitable treasure trove, laughing like idiots, grabbing any coin, jewel, or other trinkets to bolster their pockets. In so doing delivering a deadly insult to its owner.

Katakan's greed and love for all things shiny rivaled their desire for blood. Once, during his early years, Geralt managed to gain the upper hand against his first by slicing off its beard, adorned with countless jiggling, blindingly dazzling rubes, sapphires, and expensive earrings. The vampire was so stunned it let its guard down and in so doing, lost its head moments after.

The brief reminiscing of days gone halted the instant Geralt's eyes spotted something just fifteen feet ahead. The mine's ceiling gradually shrunk, and he resorted to moving in a half-crouch because of it. It didn't matter, because soon enough his available room to maneuver would grow substantially. On the other side of a freshly dug hole at the tail end of the mine, was an Elven ruin.

Even squinting from a distance, Geralt recognized the stonework inside. Still looking strong and sturdy, defiant to the encroachment of nature as it was to man's centuries ago. Pillars, standing and broken, stood out prominently against the floor, as it did the chests of riches collected by the Katakan before it went into hibernation. Much of the loot was, annoyingly, scattered about the ground. What caught Geralt's attention the most was at the center of the lair: a portal.

Or rather, a construction about what must've been the place for a portal. He'd seen enough of those during the trip across worlds with Avalla'ach to spot one right away. The chance of it turning on was relatively small, Ciri already performed a smaller, second Conjunction in her bid to disperse the White Frost. Even so, just being close to a remotely possible spot for a portal to appear got on Geralt's nerves worse than a broken tooth.

Putting his distaste aside, he carefully and slowly crouched down, passing under the recently formed hole and felt his mood substantially improve when not so much as a single pebble resounded through the seemingly empty room. What betrayed the Katakan's location wasn't sound or poor concealment from the creature. It was the faintest but distinct odor of blood coming from the ceiling.

Peering upward, his free hand reaching for the crossbow attached to his left side belt, Geralt squinted and spotted the creature sleeping amongst a slew of man-sized stalactites adorning the ceiling by the dozens if not hundreds. It did not so much as move the faintest muscle, nor did it let out a single sound. But as it was so often the case, the beast's nature betrayed it.

Geralt would have to act swiftly. If he aimed true and the beast's instincts were too slow, a single bolt through its head could end the fight in a moment. And so he prepared to do just that. Slowly, agonizingly, the Witcher took the crossbow off his belt and gently pressed against the trigger. His knees were bent, his sword hand clutching the hilt and ready to attack.

With the distinct thump, the crossbows mechanisms cut through the silence. The bolt flew through the air and for a moment, it seemed as though the fight was already done. A fraction of an instant before the bolt fired, a pair of black, predatory eyes snapped open and the Katakan tried to flee. Unsuccessfully. The bolt didn't pierce its head, but there was an unmistakable crunching sound of steel piercing metal and the blood-freezing chill of a monster renowned for feeding on it.

The beast landed about twenty feet north of Geralt, the impact reverberating through the ground and sending chests worth of gold and other riches to scatter about all over the place. While it was busy trying to claw out the bolt, Geralt was already on the move, anticipating its landing spot and slashing at it with a swift, overhead blow.

The Katakan abandoned its attempt of ridding itself of the bolt and darted to left. Another deafening screech came from it as it tried clawing at Geralt instead, hitting nothing but air when the Witcher leaped gracefully to the side and opened fire before his feet even touched the ground again. It missed, hitting some far off wall while the Katakan's body shimmered then vanished into nothingness.

Geralt dropped the crossbow, the Katakan would disembowel him before he could get another bolt ready anyhow. Instead, he took his sword with both hands and kept to one place. His blade moving in constant, circular motions, a constant steady swirl of motion ready to divert itself in whatever direction the Witcher needed it to.

Not that he didn't know where the beast was. The Katakan's blood stood out most prominently against that of men and children, and since he hadn't heard any more flesh being rent or a bolt clanking against the floor, Geralt knew it was choosing to suffer the pain in silence. There, over to the western side of the room, where the portal construct stood between them.

The Witcher decided not to let the beast know what he knew. Instead, he did something sure to anger it. With a few furtive steps to his right, Geralt spotted a golden goblet adorned with sparkling white jewels and other stones. It was fit for any king or queen. It was probably worth more than the last three dozen contracts he'd taken up combined.

Without hesitation, Geralt's foot stomped on the goblet and though his foot already hurt, the gold bent with a satisfying, metallic whine. The Katakan was on him almost immediately and this time, the Witcher saw its claws flash mere inches from his face as he leaped backward. His arms moved on pure instinct and struck back, rewarding him with a clash across the Katakan's right abdomen.

It yelled again, unquestionably feeling the searing of silver carving it and the oil acting as the cherry on top, as Dandelion was fond of saying. Geralt pressed his advantage, delivering two more cuts, one to its knee and another cutting off its smallest claw. Then he purposefully stopped and diverted all his energies into a pirouette, avoiding a returning claw strike which would've carved his chest into two pieces, at least.

He tried to use the momentum to perhaps cut into the back of the Katakan's neck but the beast leaped forward, avoiding death for the time being. They circled one another for a few, tense heartbeats, the vampire too wounded or bloody furious to bother turning invisible again and the Witcher, glaring back with his black pits for eyes and smiling nastily.

That was when it happened. When the tense silence was broken not by the snarl of the beast or the blow of a mutant, but by the activation of a portal. One connecting this place to who knew where or what and the vampire wasted not a moment going for it. With a dramatic series of leaps betraying how much strength the monster still possessed, it went for it.

And as was so frequently the case, Geralt's mind told him to let it go, that there was no knowing what awaited either of them on the other side. A wasteland where they would burn or freeze in moments, a strange alien world as the ones Ciri spoke to him off where both would be even less welcome than the world they called home. And as was so frequently the case, Geralt did not let it go.

With a snarl from the very deepest recess' of his throat that he would come to regret the morning after, if he lived that long, the Witcher leaped as well and drove his blade right through the Katakan's chest, his other hand gripping tightly to its left horn. For a moment, the two stood there, on the precipice of the portal and Geralt almost thought he'd stopped the disaster. Until the vampire lurched forward, then he felt the distinct, horrifying nothingness of every portal crossing.

Then, there was the suffocation of water, of being deep, deep underwater in what was likely some lake or sea. Neither Geralt nor the Katakan was prepared for it, the two of them awkwardly shouting and swaying left, right and then spinning in circles like some mad, drunk Dwarves tumbling in the middle of a tavern brawl. Every so often, Geralt's eyes caught sight of the portal and it's remaining active gave him hope. Hope that if he killed the beast quickly, he could still make it back home from wherever the Hell he was then.

Until the swaying Katakan, even less used to swimming than Geralt was, swung its powerful claws and in a single motion, carved the portal construct clean in two. Before Geralt could curse it or even better, make the child-murdering scum pay, the discharge of destabilized magical energy exploded merely a handful of feet away, propelling them upward in another dizzying spin.

Despite his arms already aching from the exertion and wanting to let go, Geralt managed to hold on to the vampire even as their spinning grew worse and worse. Somehow, in this calamity of madness and drowning, the Witcher removed a silver blade from his belt and wildly, like a man completely lost of his senses, began stabbing the Katakan. Over, and over again in and eventually through the throat.  
In its last moments, the vampire managed to reach the surface of the water, letting out a pained, gurgling screech which prematurely ended when Geralt's own snarl overtook it and the knife removed the monsters head. It floated on the surface, almost comically bobbing up and down against the light swaying waves of the darkening pool of blood and water about it.

Geralt ignored it for the time being, instead, letting his body go limb and rest against the Katakan's body, using it as a disgusting raft of flesh and bone. The battle frenzy took a while to abate, leaving him already feeling tired and beaten when he was quite certain there was nary a scratch on him. Though, a flesh wound was preferable to what was already clear.

It wasn't simply the fact Geralt and his contract ended up in the middle of the ocean, at night when it was midday before. It wasn't merely that Geralt spun the corpse about and spotted a massive city off in the distance, the likes of which he'd never seen before with a monstrous fortress of a dozen towers looming over it atop a nearby hill. No, the detail that told the Witcher he'd gone somewhere very far away came from the stars.  
He couldn't recognize a single constellation.

A single curse came out of him, quiet and snarling. Then it was accompanied by a score, then two scores of others. Each louder and more blasphemous than the last. It wasn't until his throat became sore that Geralt finally stopped and let some good sense dictate his next course of action. Well, good sense and a desire to vent his frustrations in another way: by removing every useful thing the Katakan had to offer him then setting the bastards leftovers on fire.


	2. Chapter 2

The next difference between home and this other world became clear to Geralt while he still swam. Getting the corpse out to shore was to be a difficult task. The Katakan was over a head taller than him. Its body mass was several pounds greater than the Witchers. The vampire had caused him enough trouble, and the sooner it ended, the sooner he could focus on other matters.

His bad luck made itself known again when the Aard, which was supposed to blast the body and head faster to shore, amounted to almost nothing. The water barely rippled, as though a child slapped it. A belch from Zoltan would've done more.

"What the devil...?" He said, staring at his left hand. Again, he thrust, and the result was no better. His potions had yet to run out, nor had he exerted himself by casting too many signs beforehand. Therefore the problem was elsewhere.

Though he was no great sorcerer, to use even a simple sign required a fundamental understanding of how magic functioned. To wield it, one must focus the force around oneself through concentration and varying exertions of their own will. Through said will and no small amount of practice, one could perform many incredible feats.

And so Geralt closed his eyes, nearly halting his own slowed heartbeat and enjoyed the cooling feel of the ocean about him. Letting his senses perceive the force as best he could. It was a practice many young Witchers did early in their sign training. One only tolerated for a short while.

It was here Geralt found the root cause of his diminished sign power: the force of this world was weak. This ocean alone held less of it than a small lake back home. Each scrap was like trying to grab a spilled water between his fingers. Was this world always so starved, or did something weaken it?

Whatever the cause, the effect on Geralt's sign strength remained even after spending up to a minute concentrating. The Aard, though more powerful than before, still nudged the Katakan half the distance it should have.

About fifteen minutes later, the corpse and Witcher finally reached the shore. First, Geralt removed his sword still inside the vampire's body, meeting little resistance. With more force than necessary, he kicked the corpse so that its chest faced the sky.

He stared at it, wondering whether or not to bother removing its bones, heart, and any other useful parts. Just carrying the head around with no horse was troublesome given its size and weight. Yet the vampire owed him much for the misfortune it wrought. If this world lacked some ingredients required for Witcher potions, Geralt would rob himself of a useful, finite resource. He could not afford it, not with his diminished signs.

His practicality won out. Kneeling at the beast's left side, Geralt put his sword onto the ground. With the silver dagger in-hand, he began carving off the Katakan's claws. Ordinarily, taking off their limbs and extracting from them wholesale was the wiser option. Without Roach around and the saddlebag to place all of those bones in, this would have to suffice.

Luckily, the flesh about the claws showed little resistance. In a few minutes, most of them were off. Through the next hour, there were eight useful bones for alchemy. Geralt wrapped them in a cloth and placed them inside one of the two leather bags of his bandolier. Inside the other, he put the heart after cleaning it in the ocean and wrapping a cloth around it as well.

Knowing he couldn't burn the corpse with a single Igni, Geralt decided a more inventive approach. With a series of sword swings, he removed the vampire's limbs and stuffed them inside its open chest cavity. Next, oil got applied to the lump of blood, mutilated flesh. Even the weakened fire blast found ample fuel with its flame resembling the inside of a furnace.

He remained by the body, watching its flesh peel away, crack and turn black. Though Geralt was tired from the battle, the shock of being on another world and riping the body to pieces, he was mostly satisfied. Though they did not know it, and likely thought him dead, the families of Magdalena, Zvone, Igor, and Petar had received justice. No more sons or daughters of Zrinski would die to the blood-sucking fiend.

The shred of bitterness dulling his sense of accomplishment came from the fact he could not tell them so, not yet. Then there was the fact he took the small bits of jewelry adorning the Katakan. Two golden bracelets, a single ruby ring and some earrings from the head.

Though he had a coin purse, it was unlikely the sentient creatures inhabiting the castle would take them. Ciri and Yennefer would find him, that was beyond question, but how soon wasn't. So, he would have to sell the Katakan's treasures to acquire whatever passed for currency.

It was hard to say who or what inhabited the city looming so distinctly against the moonlight. Save for the seven-massive drum towers, little else besides its impressive size was certain. It didn't help his Cat's potion was wearing off, leaving his Nightvision dulled. Earlier, he spotted lights there, perhaps torches or whatever else they used for illumination.

Perhaps he would encounter humans, from what Ciri told him, they were present in other worlds. The Elves and Dwarves certainly liked to say they arrived back home with the Conjunction. Perhaps this was a domain of the Elves, judging by one of their ruins being present. Or the native species was something else entirely, closer to the Vodyanoy. One of his great regrets from all of the Salamandra business was never visiting their city.

Much as he liked to complain about Dandelion's curiosity, on account of him being unable to control it, Geralt shared it. As often as it led him to danger, it also provided him with many unforgettable experiences. Unlike the places he'd visited during his trip with Avalla'ach, this world wasn't immediately hostile to him either.

Should a great danger present itself, it might hasten his return home more than anything. The bond between Geralt and Ciri was strong, for when one fell into peril, the other became aware of it through dreams and nightmares.

His mind made up, Geralt grabbed the hook he'd ran through the Katakan's head, hoisted it off the ground over a shoulder and made his way into the forest. Lunch or rather, a late-night snack, was due. Keeping an ear out, Geralt already recognized a slew of familiar noises.

From the branches of the tall trees came the distinct hoots of owls, and the screeching of bats. Crickets were abuzz everywhere, chirping unceasingly in a chorus numbering in the dozens or hundreds. Fireflies buzzed through the air, providing illumination the deeper he ventured.

On the ground, Geralt detected the soft rustling of leaves and bushes from mice, hedgehogs, and even foxes. Though he heard no bears prowling the area, the Witcher picked up the distinct huffing of a wolf pack some ways off. What had already picked up his scent, or the Katakan's was a wild boar.

Geralt unsheathed his steel blade with the slow softness of a lovers caress. His lunch to be rumbled and hastened its step, each one reverberating through the ground with increasing frequency. Imperceptibly, Geralt bent his knees and tensed the fingers about the hilt. A few heartbeats later, he leaped to the right just as the boar came at him. The sword flashed, blood spurt across the nearby bushes, the boar slammed headfirst into the nearest tree. A moment later, the top of its skull finally landed.

Putting the vampire head down, Geralt grabbed hold of the boars back leg, dragging it away from the tree with some effort. Luckily, they'd run into one another in a small clearing, just big enough for him to set a fire without burning the whole forest down.

The Witcher gathered branches and other pieces of wood lying about in the clearing center. Once they were set aflame from a diminutive Igni, he went about sharping one of the longer, sturdier branches with his dagger. Lastly, came skinning the board. It was an impressive beast at full height, nearly reaching Geralt's thighs. Its weight was well over thirty stones, at least. He couldn't hope to eat it all, however. The forest would have to take care of his leftovers.

Judging by its teeth, the animal was perhaps two or three years old. That meant good meat from it. Carving about its necks, Geralt removed a few good-sized chunks and pierced them through with the sharpened stick. Now he simply had to wait a while until it was good and ready to eat. In his youth, the process was a slog Geralt made tolerable through sword fighting practice. Now, with nearly a century of life at his back, there was a mundane pleasure from preparing a meal. It was a practice in its own right.

So he watched and listened as the minutes passed by, the forest life continued despite his presence. One group he noticed earlier and fully expected to visit him did so eventually. They numbered five pack members, quietly they prowled through the forest, sniffing and salivating the smell of cooked and uncooked meat. Geralt watched them without moving, taking note of their yellow eyes watching him at the edges of the campfire.

He didn't feel like fighting anymore for today. So, Geralt rose slowly to his feet, grabbing the boar with both hands, heaving it off into the forest where three of the wolves stood. They snarled and bared their fangs at him but made no move to attack. Their free dinner was waiting. By the time Geralt sat back down, his meal was ready as well.

And so for a while, the six wolves ate together.

Eventually, the pack left, devouring a sizable portion of the boar and with enough left over for later. Geralt listened to them go, sitting down with his back pressed against the nearest tree. Under one arm was the Katakan head, in another the steel sword.

He chose neither to travel further into the forest or sleep. Instead, Geralt closed his eyes, let his breathing fall into a practiced pattern, slowing his heartbeat. The meditation left him relaxed and alert, capable of resting and springing into action at a moment's notice. Unmovingly, he laid there, still as a corpse until hours later, when the early morning sunshine warmed his face.

Wiping away the caterpillar which decided to crawl across his brow, Geralt let out a long moan, stretching the muscles of his neck then shoulders. Just as with his world, the sun was bright orange, piercing the retreating night, turning the sky into a collection of purple and blue hues. Assuming it functioned positionally the same, Geralt could finally discern where east and west were.

The large city he spotted was, relative to his position, further west. It would no doubt take him perhaps another day or so to get there. Without delay, he did so. The owls and bats of the woods gave way to seagulls and chirping morning birds. Squirrels and rabbits abandoned their domains to begin foraging for food. They were indistinguishable from the species of his world. As did the trees with many of the plants he came across as well, Mistletoes, Allspice, White Mertle, Fools Parsley to name but a few.

Other he did not see, perhaps because they did not grow there or did not exist at all. He would not use the recognizable herbs for potions without testing them first. Just because they looked and smelled the same didn't mean there weren't differences. Ones he couldn't know of and could turn even a simple Cat potion into an alchemical bomb ready to backfire on him.

Some hours later, Geralt stopped walking. Firstly to let his feet rest for a bit and secondly to spot any water around. Besides seawater, he hadn't drunk a thing since the day before, the thirst was beginning to annoy him. After a few minutes of listening, the Witcher heard a creek flowing.

The firstly faint rush of water grew as he traversed the forest southward. Yet his attention on it gave away to another sound Geralt was all too familiar with: the pounding of horse hooves. Several, moving at a leisure pace, accompanied by the creaking and swaying of what seemed a large, heavy wooden carriage.

Moving toward the sound, hastening his speed in turn, Geralt hoped his presence wouldn't elicit violence to erupt. Still, the Witcher would take a long, hard look at whoever rode those horses before revealing himself. The closer he got to the horses, the more it became clear he was not the only one to converge on their location.

As all violence did, it happened suddenly and without warning to the recipient. The distinctive cry of a man in pain echoed through the woods soon joined by the neighing of horses, the shouting of commands, and the steel pounding against steel.

Geralt's blade was out in an instant, his body rushing past the trees as fast as his legs could manage. The noise of battle grew stronger: men were dying, a woman screamed, a burst of bone-chilling laughter drowned it all out.

Soon enough, he came upon what was a road, the site of the battle. Before he could join it, Geralt took spotted one of the ambushers keeping a safe distance, striking his targets with a bow and arrow. From a glance, he was an older man with white hair tied into a ponytail, wearing a green jerkin, moving with a precision Milva would've found impressive.

He was also alert, for when Geralt snapped a twig on the ground, the brigand spun around, unleashing an arrow intended for someone else the intruder. Geralt deflected it with a circular motion of his sword. The archer stared, opening his mouth to curse before his head came off following another swing.

Reaching for a silver dagger, Geralt emerged from the forest to the carriages right. Inside it, a woman screamed, trying to fight off another archer clad in black at the door, her tan arms vainly keeping him at bay.

A bit further away, two of his companions fought against a pair of men in black armor adorned with golden cloaks.

With a single knife toss, Geralt attacked the archer harassing the woman, driving the blade clear through the back of his head. The brigand to the Witcher's left, wearing a distinct red scarf around his neck, took notice of his fallen comrade first. He even managed to spot Geralt himself a moment before he was beheaded as well.

"Oswyn!" The largest of them so far, a bearded bear of a man with a head wrapped in chainmail, wielding a Warhammer roared. With a single backhand, he knocked the gold cloak to the ground, charging at Geralt.

With an impressive grace and speed to his technique, the bearded bear swung, intending to take Geralt's head off. He struck nothing for the Witcher ducked, already launching his counter-attack. With an upward sword swing, the steel blade split the bandits head in two from chin to brow.

A momentary lull fell over the battle, Geralt staring at the dead man falling to his feet, the gold cloaks staring at the Witcher as though he were some phantasm. But only for a moment, until the laughter from before came back. From the front of the carriage, clad in black armor, a round shield and fresh blood dripping down his blade, came the ugliest man Geralt had ever seen.

He was without question uglier than Vilgerfortz. His receding hairline exposed a ghastly pale skin rivaling Geralt's own. His eyes had red bags under them, emphasizing the tiny black hateful orbs in their sockets. His teeth were jagged, rotten yellow, eternally fixed into a smile capable of making a drowner piss itself.

With slow, powerful steps, the smiling brigand dressed in a dark perversion of a knight came at Geralt.

"A most welcome surprise," He laughed again. "Perhaps you'll satisfy me now that Hightower cannot!"

Geralt wasted no time on banter, opting to strike him down quickly then move on to the rest. Yet when his blade moved to sever another throat, the smiling brigand demonstrated a speed much greater than one would expect, deflecting the stab.

He tried to bash Geralt with a shield, but the Witcher already moved aside, swinging back before his feet even touched the ground. Hatori's swordcraft made itself known immediately, carving through the right shoulder plate. The smiling brigand laughed, pressing forward, unleashing a series of quick yet powerful slashes and thrusts.

Geralt either met or darted around them, thankful that the two gold cloaks opted to flee instead of getting in his way. With a pirouette, the Witcher avoided another thrust, scoring two hits of his own. The first cutting into the right forearm while another slashed the bandit diagonally across his back.

Once again, the brigand laughed, spinning around to strike with even greater ferocity than before. Perhaps he was some strange monster from this world, capable of feeding off the pain of his injuries. Or he was just a man who knew death was close at hand and wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.

Whichever was true, Geralt would end it in a way he knew to work with any man or beast. Leaning to the right, the Witcher evaded another swing, pulled his arm back, and thrust it through the brigand's right knee. Even this mad dog howled from the pain, stumbling into a kneeling position.

Pulling the blade out, Geralt intended to cut his head off as well when he picked up a noise. Their battle had moved them past the back of the carriage, out in the open. A third archer awaited them there. Geralt just barely jerked his head back, letting the arrow pass mere inches from his face.

With grit teeth, Geralt grabbed hold of another throwing knife when the smiling brigand shouted. Ripping his round shield away, he roared and tossed it in the direction of the forest.

From there, a woman's yelp came out. "Bloody mad whoreson!"

"Stay out of this Wenda," He took hold of his sword, pointing at Geralt. "I'll suffer no interference in this battle!"

Geralt kept an ear out for her regardless, though by the sound of things Wenda would do as ordered.

"My apologies," The smiling one said with a mocking tone it was hard to gauge the sincerity of it. "A duel like ours should remain ours only."

The Witcher stared at him for a moment, then bowed his head in acknowledgment. In the next moment, they were back at it. With an impressive strength of will power, the smiling brigand launched back to his feet, his blade meeting Geralt's in a lock.

The two stared at one another, faces inches apart, one with a forceful grin, the other of a cold professional. The Witcher's demeanor broke first with the next strike. With a snarl, Geralt pushed the bandit away, bringing his sword back down with an overhead blow.

His adversary, determined as he was, could not defeat a knee. It gave out from the force of Geralt's blow and the weight of his own armored body. Pressing his advantage, the Witcher raised his blade overhead again.

When it came back down, it did so in the company of a coarse, bestial roar from the depths of Geralt's throat. Such was its strength the sound drowned out the sound of a sword snapping, armor giving away to an enemy blow, and finally, flesh being rent.

Blinking, Geralt stared at the right side of the smiling brigand's chest. With a slow-motion, one part of it went to the right, while the rest of him leaned to the left. His sword hand went limp, dropping the snapped blade at Geralt's feet. Blood poured from the massive wound, forming a puddle around them.

Yet the smiling brigand's expression was not one of pain. Instead, the ghastly grin gained a touch of warmth to it, of genuine happiness and humanity before the light dimmed from his eyes forever.

Geralt stood there, observing the corpse even as he heard Wenda curse, fleeing into the woods. Again and again, she shouted, "The Smiling Knight is dead!".

Her companion from the front of the carriage, a man Geralt did not see, tossed his sword to the ground, saying he was surrendering. An older man, wearing a dirtied set of white armor and a bleeding right hand came from the front then halted.

He stared at Geralt, then the Smiling Knight's corpse before returning his gaze to the Witcher. There was apprehension there, uncertainty even a bit of fear. There was no disgust or revulsion, however. The look many adopted whenever one of his kind was within sight.

Eventually, the knight ripped his gaze away and moved to the carriage door. The girl from inside came out. She was a frail-looking young woman, no more than two, perhaps three years older than Ciri. Her yellow gown and headband complemented her tan skin. Though she was shaken by what transpired, she managed a warm smile to the knight regardless.

"Princess Ellia! Are you alright, your grace?"

"Yes, Ser Gerold," She confirmed, taking a deep breath. "Though, it would not be so if not for this man."

Just as the knight did, there was uncertainty present in her gaze. As though neither one could fully comprehend what this strange, viper-eyed man before them was. Yet, Geralt could not help notice and appreciate the gratitude there as well.

"I only did what anyone else would, your majesty," Geralt bowed, remembering the court courtesies hammered into him by Dandelion, Yennefer, and Triss.

Surprisingly, it was the knight who laughed. Though not mockingly. "Not just anyone could kill the Smiling Knight. Nevermind half of the Kingswood Brotherhood."

"Please, ser, rise," The princess asked, Geralt did so. "I wish to know the name of the man who has done us all such a service today."

"Geralt of Rivia, your majesty. I'm a Witcher."


	3. Chapter 3

"I see you've finally taken notice of Kings Landing's welcoming gift to one and all."

"Whatever gave you that impression, Ser Gerold? The watering of my eyes, the constant wrinkling of my nose, the ever-present curl of my lips? Perhaps my new horse-like, head-shaking tic?"

The Kingsguard riding at the forefront of the party to Geralt's right took no offense to the Witcher's tone. Instead, he adopted a cheeky smile.

"Aye."

The city in-question finally became plain to see as they reached the final stretch of the Kingswood. Though he'd already guessed its considerable size from a distance earlier, only now did Geralt realize it was the largest city he'd ever seen. Oxenfurt, Novigrad, Vizima, Vengeberg, and many others he could list off were nothing in comparison. Accounting for the smaller, cobbled together miniature towns present that Geralt could see from this side, Kings Landing very likely stretched several square miles. The population must've been in the hundreds of thousands. It was highly likely there were more people in this capital city than in many leagues of the Northern Kingdoms. So many people packed together, it was little wonder the stench was foul and wide-spreading.

"Care for a piece of advice?"

"Certainly."

"Think of flowers. Yes, you heard me right. Nothing defeats the smell of Kings Landing as reminiscing about more pleasant scents. In the Reach, the only thing held in higher esteem than chivalry is the nurturing of the land. Melons, peaches, apples, grapes, the finest of wines, and yes, flower gardens grow as far as the eye can see. You'll find no more fertile a place in all of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Sounds like a place I've been to back home."

"There is no place like the Reach," Ser Gerold said, exhibiting a measure of the puffed-up pride Geralt had come to know from knights. Even this, however, held more than a trace of the Kingsguard's good humor. If this Reach was as similar to Touissant as Geralt thought it to be, then it made sense why a stranger such as him received such courtesy. One's Martial skill was a proven way for even the lowest of commoners to rise in society, Geralt had made his debut almost wiping out a notorious group of thieves and cutthroats. Indeed, the survivors of the battle showed rare gratitude, untainted by scorn and prejudice for Witchers.

It probably helped they had no notion as to what a Witcher was. They'd never seen or heard of one before. Geralt kept his explanation simple, to the point: he was a monster hunter. One such beast was responsible for bringing him this far from home. The vampire whose head hung from the side of the saddle, wrapped in a sack Geralt took from the Brotherhood. The people of Westeros showed interest in seeing the creature, but back in the safety of court. The Princess' initial desire for the outdoors evaporated following the battle, a sentiment shared by all accompanying her.

Before the left, however, Geralt was able to endear himself even more to the Westerosi. Using salves and ointments given to him and Ciri by Nenneke during a recent visit to Ellander, he played the role of battlefield healer. Ser Gerold's hand, pierced by an arrow, was already back in use while a young Gold Cloak named Alyn bled no more from his brow cut. Though he did voice disappointment when Geralt said he'd have no scar to impress women.

"If it's not too much of a bother, I'd rather talk the rest of the way to, what did you call it? The Red Keep?"

"Aye, you'd be hard-pressed to miss it," Ser Gerold pointed to one of the three massive hills within King's Landing. With the midday sun overhead, its pale red stone seemed to glow prominently against its surroundings.

"Therein lies the court of King Aerys Targaryen the second, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Ruler of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms."

"An impressive collection of titles, I assume the Seven Kingdoms stretch across the whole continent?"

"An astute assumption, master Witcher. From the deserts of Dorne to the south to the Wall of the north, rules House Targaryen. So it has been for nearly the past three hundred years. Gods willing, it shall continue for many centuries thereafter."

"This city is only three hundred years old?" Geralt said, surprised by the fact. "I had thought it was much older, given its size and importance."

"The Seven Kingdoms have existed for thousands of years. The task of uniting them was only begun and with great success, by the first king of Westeros. Aegon Targaryen, the founder of the dynasty. Together with his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys, and their three dragons, they united much of Westeros."

Geralt noticed and pointedly avoided questioning the sister-wives portion of the story. "Westeros is home to dragons?"

"Once," Ser Gerold said, his enthusiasm faltering. "Over a century has passed since the death of the last dragon. The world has not seen one since."

"No doubt a sad fact for many a boy to hear throughout the realm."

"Like you wouldn't believe," The Kingsguard said with a rueful smile this time. "After all, who would not want to merely lay eyes upon such a creature? I am not ashamed to admit that the boy within me would swoon at such a sight."

"Do dragons hold religious significance here?" Geralt said, choosing to gain a greater understanding of their views on the creatures. "In a land far from even Rivia, they are revered as gods."

"The Faith of the Seven rules here," Ser Gerold pointed next to the second hill of King's Landing. This one was situated closer to its center in contrast to the Red Keep. Again, Geralt noticed seven towers that sparkled against the sunlight. Possibly made of some crystal substance. The towers surrounded a massive, marble dome. "The Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maid, the Smith, the Crone, and finally, the Stranger. The greatest place of worship for them is atop Visenya's hill there. The Great Sept of Baelor."

"Seven gods pertaining to forms of justice, craft, healing, nurturing, death, and so forth. Simple enough to grasp and quite similar in some respects to the faiths of my own lands."

"There are other Gods as well, though their presence in Kings Landing is far lesser. In the northern lands of Westeros reign the old gods. They number more than the Seven, though their names are few. I know little else of them, save they are beings of forests, streams, and stone. There is also the Drowned God of the Iron Islands, though I know and care little to know of him."

"I'd wager the Iron Islands people aren't popular here?"

"The Ironborn," Ser Gerold corrected. "And no, far from it. Though I served with and even met a few decent ones in battle, the rest are but reavers and cutthroats. Eternally bitter for the end of their glory days yet too foolish to understand they are passed."

"And what lies on the third hill, Ser Gerold?"

"That is the Dragon Pit, naught but a blackened ruin," He pointed to the farthest hill, revealing a split open domed building resembling the maw of a great beast. "Once it served as home to the dragons, until their decline and final death. No one goes there now. No one has for well over a century..."

Just as Ser Gerold trailed off, they reached the outskirts of King's Landing. For half a mile alone, their part rode past inns, stalls, taverns, storehouses, small markets, and of course, brothels. What stood out most to Geralt was how utterly unremarkable the sight was. It was the kind of place one could encounter outside any larger city in the Northern Kingdoms. Almost distractingly so. A guard upon the gates noticed the royal banners adorning the carriage and swiftly opened them, allowing passage.

Inside, Geralt bore witness the sea of people within the walls. Like a never-ending horde, tightly packed together, almost shuffling from place to place instead of walking. There were peasants, merchants, soldiers, women of ill repute, women of better repute, holy men, and a thousand other occupants present within any large settlement. Even traversing through or passed them on horseback must be a nightmare. Geralt could not imagine it being anything other than an agonizing process.

Unless one in the presence of nobility. As though a spell was cast upon the entire populace, all halted. Then, all split in two, allowing the group passage inside the city. Geralt observed them, they returned the gesture. From the fainted whispers, some quieter than others, he heard the gossip-mongering begin in earnest.

"The Lord Commander is wounded!"

"Is that the prince?"

"Why's he wearin' two swords?"

"They were attacked!"

"Seven fuckin' ells! That's Simon Toyne!"

A similar concoction of wonderment, curiosity, fear, and speculation followed them all throughout the city. No small part of it concerning Geralt himself. Several more confused him with the crown prince, others stared in wonder as to who he was. A handful reacted with a wariness of his clear otherworldliness which he'd long since accepted. They passed through districts of the city primarily connected to the nearby harbor. Fishmongers of all sorts praised their wears in any number of fanciful ways. Men off galleys sang and reveled in being shit faced drunk. The local whores waved many a time to the party.

Soon enough, their journey came to an end. The Red Keep was no longer a far off curiosity but a very close, looming structure. It's massive curtain walls were even more impressive than those of King's Landing itself, reaching dozens of feet into the sky. Nests for archers were ever-present, thick stone parapets protected the outer wall ramparts. No heads were placed upon them, a curious thing.

Again, sentries positioned atop the walls signaled the return of the Princess and Lord Commander, accompanied by a horn. The main entrance, a pair of bronze doors split open, allowing passage into the Red Keep proper. This was but one section of it, as inner walls further served to separate it into multiple portions. The yard within this section was vast enough to allow hundreds, possibly even thousands of men inside. Several buildings were scattered about, chambers to house the servants, men and government officials. Geralt could not begin to guess which was which, except the one to the immediate right of the bronze gates. Reaching well over two hundred feet in height, there was no doubt as to where the throne room of Westeros was situated.

Dozens more Gold Cloaks, servants and even two more members of the Kingsguard, who'd been practicing, converged on the group. They'd barely crossed inside when the whole place seemed abuzz with activity.

Ser Gerold dismounted first, reaching for the door of the carriage and assisting Princess Ellia outside. Her complexion had improved from the rest she'd taken, her tan skin a far healthier brown. With a grateful smile, she allowed the Lord Commander to guide her out. Though some cast a glance or two at Geralt, everyone's focus was expectedly elsewhere.

"Ellia! Ellia!" One of the Kingsguard, with short brown hair and tanned skin cut through the assembled mob as a man possessed. From a glance, Geralt was able to spot the familial resemblance. Princess and warrior shared the same eyes, nose, and even mouth shape. Too old to be her brother, an uncle, or cousin by Geralt's estimate.

Whatever they were, neither the Princess nor anyone else prevented the man from wrapping Ellia in a tight hug. Her smile widened as she returned it.

"What happened?" He asked, observing the dress torn at the feet along with the bandage on Ser Gerold's hand. "Who did this?"

"The Kingswood Brotherhood," The Lord Commander answered in a clear, decisive voice. A near collective gasp of disbelief came from the crowd, many already whispering amongst themselves. "Bold have they grown these past moons, bold enough to try and attack even the Princess of Westeros!"

"I knew this would come to pass," The man who embraced Ellia said with fury. The crowd voicing their agreement with equal fervor. Some of it genuine, some painfully artificial. "We should have cut those animals down to the last man long ago! Dammit... I should've been there by your side!"

"Uncle," The Princess's warm voice had an immediate effect on the man, wrapping her hands around his shaking fist. "I understand your anger but it is unnecessary. For I am alive, as is Ser Gerold. And the Kingswood Brotherhood shall bother no one else ever again."

"You managed to defeat them, Lord Commander?" The other Kingsguard spoke, a younger man with short, chestnut-colored hair and blue eyes. "The Brotherhood is no more?"

"The Brother is all but destroyed yes, though I lay no claim to the honor of doing so. That belongs to someone else who came to our aid when we most desperately needed it."

Ser Gerold turned his head and smiled. It was then the group noticed Geralt, hanging about behind them, running a hand across his horse's neck. Much of the same reaction from the ordinary citizens was present amongst the guards, servants, and nobles around. Wonder. Curiosity. Apprehension. Some fear. Respect.

"Ser Gerold speaks true," Princess Ellia said, speaking loudly for all those to hear. With a gesture, she commanded Geralt to approach. He did so. "For none of us would be here were it not for the selfless bravery of this man. A man from distant lands yet has earned his place in Westeros. I present to you, Geralt, the Witcher of Rivia."

The Witcher bowed his head in acknowledgment of the praise and to greet those present. Everyone was looking at him, though Geralt primarily kept his gaze onto the Kingsguard. It was easier that way.

"You defeated the Brotherhood?" The Princess's uncle said as though Geralt had moved the sun back to the east.

"Singlehandedly," The Princess confirmed, giving Geralt a smile as the excitement grew with even an greater intensity. "I witnessed much of it myself, no less than six members of the Brotherhood are dead thanks to Master Geralt."

"Even the Smiling Knight?" The younger Kingsguard said, stepping forward.

"Slain in single combat by Geralt as well. Though, cleaved in half would be a more accurate way of putting it."

The younger one's jaw almost dropped in a plain display of bad etiquette. Not that much of it was left. Each statement from the Lord Commander and Princess seemed to intensify the fervor of the assembled welcoming party. They must've been so loud the entire keep could hear them by now.

"Master Witcher," The Princess' uncle stepped forward, with one hand on the pommel of his sword, he bowed deeply. "On my honor as a knight and member of the Kingsguard, on behalf of myself, House Martell, and all of Dorne, I give you my most sincere thanks! We are all in your debt, say your wish, and we shall make it so!"

Geralt stared, unaccustomed to this much attention. Nothing since his knighting and time spent amongst Queen Meve's rebel army compared to this. Men clapped, cheered his name. He was a hero, not a freak or mutant. Still unsure of what to do, Geralt smiled and acknowledged the gesture with a nod of his head.

"There will be plenty of time for rewards and such later, first," Ser Gerold moved to one of the horses at the back of the group and with a single tug of his hand, tossed Simon Toyne onto the ground. "Get him in a cell, a dark, miserable one."

Several of the soldiers remembered their duty and did precisely this, dragging the brigand away until Geralt could no longer see him. Then, the young Kingsguard stepped forward. The wonder and surprise in his eyes vanished, he leaned close to his colleagues and the Princess.

"We must tell the king of this, immediately. No doubt rumors and hearsay already spread across the castle. We must put a stop to them without delay."

"Aye," Ser Gerold said, sounding grimmer than Geralt had ever heard him. They all were, including the group of people still hanging about. The excitement evaporated almost instantly. Replaced by apprehension, and fear. Fear so palpable it might have been a noose tied around all of their necks.

"I shall speak to him first, then you Ser Gerold."

"Aye, we shall do so, your grace," Then he looked at Geralt, his mouth a thin line. There was pity in his grey eyes. Pity and a silent apology. "As will you, Master Witcher."

Geralt, as before, nodded in acknowledgment without a word. Though every one of his instincts told him something very foul was afoot, he would not truly understand why that is. Not for another hour. Not until he came face to face with Aerys Targaryen the second, known to many but not to him as the Mad King.


	4. Chapter 4

"I must relieve you of all your weapons, Geralt." Ser Gerold said, extending a hand as the two stood before a set of bronze, wooden doors. Tall enough for a man mounted on horseback to cross through. On the other side, was the throne room, with several hundred people there. Even through the thick doors and stone walls, Geralt could hear the stir, the speculation, the anticipation. It was the same fervor that welcomed them half an hour past.

This time, Geralt did not find it quite so overwhelming. The fear he spotted when they mentioned the king was ever in his thoughts. Prickling away and souring his mood like a broken tooth. What kind of monarch was he to elicit such a fleeting yet powerful reaction at the mere thought of having to speak to him?

Perhaps if circumstances were different, Geralt would've acquiesced to the request without much more than an annoyed huff. Now, he gave the Kingsguard a very steely look. The knight narrowed his eyes in defiance of the gaze, even as Geralt noticed him gulp under something quite close to a vipers stare.

"None may approach his grace' presence with a weapon, even sheathed. Save for his Kingsguard. Hand them over, Geralt."

Geralt did not move, even as Ser Gerold reached closer. The guards at the doors shuffled imperceptibly, their eyes darting between the two men. With a deliberate pace, Geralt went about removing his armaments, starting with the bandolier. Once it was handed to the Lord Commander, he removed some of the throwing knives concealed about his person. Save for one hidden in his boot. The last weapons to come off were the Moon Dust bombs. Those he handed to one of the men stationed outside the gates.

"Don't throw or drop these if you value your lives," He warned the soldier, letting a severity enter his voice. Then he pointed to the sack containing the Katakan's head. "And do not touch that if you wish to sleep well for the next moon."

Once he was reasonably sure they understood the importance of following his instructions, Geralt nodded at Ser Gerold. The guards closest to the doors grabbed hold and pushed them aside, allowing the two to enter.

The throne room of the Red Keep was less a room and more a cavern. Geralt's earlier estimation of its size did nothing to quell the amazement of seeing it from the inside. Its height all the way from the vaulted ceiling adorned with arches and thick stone columns was, at least, two or three stories. The eastern and western walls allowed the afternoon sunlight to enter through high, narrow windows. Yet what truly caught his attention before anything else was the collection of dragon skulls.

The Witcher never laid eyes upon its like anywhere in the Northern Kingdoms. They were ever-present, placed between the narrow windows like an ominous group of gargoyle protectors. The range of them was varied indeed. Some couldn't have been bigger than an ordinary hound. Others were far and away bigger than Saskia or Borch. One, in particular, the largest and most looming of them all, might've been the grandest living animal Geralt would never see. By its head alone, it was massive, capable of devouring a fully grown fiend with one snap of its jaws. Simply imagining such a creature soaring through the heavens must have inspired dread and wonder like nothing else.

Yet there was another reason Geralt paid so much more attention to the skulls above everything else, at first. His medallion, hidden inside his clothing, began vibrating almost the instant he entered the hall. It's vibrations particularly intensified as the Witcher passed by the grander dragon skulls. The creatures were magical in nature, just as theirs were. Even though some were centuries dead, the power pulsated strongly from them. If the worst came to pass, Geralt knew he could draw upon it to give himself a fighting chance.

As Geralt began to walk towards the center of the throne room, the desire to lash out with the power and run for his life magnified. The closer he came to this particular spot, the more apparent a most specific scent became. As a tracker of beasts and sometimes men, trusting his nose over any other sense had saved the lives of many a Witcher. Geralt very much included. He had acquired a most varied collection of smells, to make one's heart soar and to make one's stomach crumble. In the latter category, the polar opposite of lilac and gooseberries was the odor of burnt, human flesh. Precisely what Geralt identified past the halfway mark. There was no room for doubt or reinterpretation.

The grateful princess of frail health and the accepting, chivalrous knight, brought him to another Novigrad.

Geralt kept his expression neutral, paying no attention for some time to anything but quelling the fury and disgust welling up inside. He had scarcely been present at court for more than a minute and already wished to retreat into the woods. He already wanted to strike anyone he could, even himself. For it was his idea to accept the invitation, thinking the favor of a monarch and the knowledge he could glean from his library a worthwhile tradeoff to suffering courtroom politics. It was no wonder Geralt's rotten luck was so effective as of late, he was doing a marvelous job of aiding it along.

He successfully steeled himself on the final approach to the throne. At the steps, a group of nobles and other government officials sat in far less intimidating but no doubt more comfortable seats. Several other members of the Kingsguard flanked them and the throne on either side. Princess Ellia stood on her feet, offering a smile Geralt did not return, standing next to a young man. He wore a black and red doublet, accentuating his white, long hair, deep purple eyes, and classically handsome face. No doubt this was the prince, scrutinizing the Witcher with great interest.

The remainder of the group standing closest to the king was comprised of six individuals. Three seated on the left, three on the right. The first of them was an older man, well over fifty, with pale rheumy eyes. His hair was greying, a thick beard reached almost to his stomach. He wore a thick, elaborate chain of silver, tin, bronze, and many other metals was around his neck. Geralt's eyes fleetingly meeting his own seemed to elicit surprise from the man, as though he did not believe what he'd heard until now.

The next man's fear was far more palpable, though he tried his best to not show it. His head was bald, save for brown remnants on the sides, though he was not obese, he was not a man of physicality either. The green doublet with lines of silver running through it only made it more pronounced. He audibly gulped under Geralt's gaze, licking dried lips.

The third one held himself with fare more fortitude. The pale skin, white hair, and purple eyes were present, though unlike the prince, he wore a beard and short-cropped hair. He was not so much intimidated by Geralt as he was curious by the way he inspected the Witcher's features. Judging by the sparsity of such features, the noble might've thought he'd just run into a relative of some kind.

The next two were far more unpleasant, for varying reasons. The first among them wore a strange necklace of linked hands, the rest of the clothes combining a weave of striking red and gold colors. Gold was the color of his hair, emphasized by bushy side-whiskers running down the side of his face. It was the face of a hard man, not even thirty yet already full of lines around the mouth and eyes, emphasizing the severity of his green-eyed, piercing gaze. Geralt disliked him almost immediately because of it, it was precisely the same look he'd seen in another, thoroughly unpleasant man of high birth before.

The second to last of them unnerved Geralt. He was a more aged man, the oldest he'd seen in Westeros thus far. His face was nearly hairless, from what Geralt could see of the all-consuming, black, and brown cloak he wore. The smell of ash and fire was heavy on him, scorch marks doted his robes. This was no doubt the one facilitating the burning of people. His eyes were a deep blue and stared unblinkingly, in a wonderous and mad fascination. It was the same way many wizards and sorceress' looked at the Witcher, right before asking if they could cut him open for dissection.

Lastly was a plump, fat man furthest to the right with rich-looking, silk robes quite distinctly different from the Westerosi. Upon further examination, Geralt noticed the powder on his face and the perfume scents of lavender and rosewater coming off of him. This one's reaction was the mildest of all, borderline disinterested. A few years ago, Geralt would've written him off as such, yet he was a wiser man now. Something about this one set him on edge.

Past them, looming in all of its grotesque grandeur, was the Iron Throne. Ser Gerold made no mention of its appearance, Geralt felt no need to ask: a throne was a throne. In hindsight, even if the Lord Commander described it to him in detail, the Witcher would've thought he was exaggerating. Yet there it was, an asymmetrical malformity of the highest order. Even from a cursory glance, Geral could count several hundred melted blades in it. Many of them looked sharp enough to kill a man. It was less a seat for a monarch and more of a repurposed Draug corpse.

What kind of man would ever choose to oversee his realm from such a place? It took but one look at Aerys Targaryen to answer this question: an unquestionably insane man. No self-respecting person of sound mind would allow themselves to deteriorate to the sate the ruler of Westeros was in. The stench coming off of him in almost tangible waves was worse than King's Landings. It must've been weeks or months since he last bathed. His matted hair seemed entangled around the crown in painful knots, the waist-length beard was more yellow than white. His fingernails were closer to talons befitting a vampire, no man, possibly a foot long. He was gaunt and frail-looking, a reasonably strong gust of wind would surely knock him off his feet. If one were to look upon him, save for his eyes, they might see a frail, pitiable creature. Afraid of his own shadow and no doubt a thousand more real and imaginary threats.

His eyes dispelled this notion entirely. There was a mad fire burning in them, a paranoid, perpetual simmering ready to explode and devour any hapless fool to raise his ire. Geralt thought he'd seen madness with Radovid. Now? He'd take the presence of the fallen Redanian monarch over this... Thing looming above him. Ser Gerold kneeled first, bowing deeply.

"Your Grace, I bring before you the man who's presence you've requested, without whom the princess and I would not be here. Geralt, the Witcher of Rivia!"

"Your majesty," Geralt said, mirroring Ser Gerold's bow as closely as possible. "It is an honor to stand before you and the fine lords and ladies of Westeros."

The assembled crowd of bootlickers and social climbers whispered amongst themselves. Some commented on Geralt's voice and accent, others with how he addressed the king. Aerys himself said nothing for a moment until a hoarse, rattled voice from above commanded Geralt to rise. The Witcher did so, arms kept to the sides, hands fully open and eyes meeting the kings.

"It seems my Lord Commander and good-daughter have not taken leave of their senses after all. Eyes and skin worthy of a son of Valyria yet the eyes of a snake. No doubt, such a fearsome visage greatly aided you in the destruction of the brotherhood, no? The rescuing of my Lord Commander and of a princess? Truly! A story fit for the tales, is not my lords and ladies?!"

A number of them replied immediately, voicing their cheers and thanks and admiration for Geralt. The Witcher was not convinced this was the end, for many others kept their mouths pointedly shut.

"Why one might even say the tale is too good to be true," Aerys' voice chilled, suspicion and paranoia pouring into it. "A mysterious stranger who just so happens to arrive at the perfect moment to rescue, to aid two of such high birth, and to earn an audience with the king of Westeros himself! Yes, indeed, Master Witcher, it is a tale too perfect to be real... You, who speak unlike any I've heard before, proclaiming yourself from a place none at my court have ever heard and called yourself a title which means nothing at all. My curiosity of these things is great indeed, what have you to say to satisfy it?"

A witty remark about how suspiciously close his curiosity sounded like mad paranoia was at the tip of Geralt's tongue. That would absolutely not do. Instead, the Witcher thought back to Radovid, and where he'd gone wrong there. By the king's own words, it was Geralt's insolence which prompted an almost death sentence had Roache not intervened. In fact, a great many other kings, queens and monarchs voiced similar displeasure about him. Even Foltest, who was far more forgiving of it and seemed to enjoy a candid conversation for a change. The answer then was simple, Geralt would have to stoop quite low indeed and resort to outright ass-kissing.

"I would say that you are a wise ruler indeed to ask such questions, your highness," Geralt said, trying to make his voice as flattering as possible. Already, Aerys' lip quirked upward. "For if a man of Westeros found himself in my position, at the court of Emperor Emhyr, and spoke of seven kingdoms, a throne of blades and dragon kings, he too would face many questions."

"And what would this Emhyr do?"

"If he was feeling generous, toss the man out of his court and spend many a night using him as the subject of court jests. Without proof, of course, your majesty."

"Proof which you possess?" Aerys said, smiling nastily and leaning forward. "Ser Gerold mentioned you hunted a beast on my lands, is this your proof?"

"It is, for it is a creature unlike any you've seen before. I daresay the only thing which could shock you more than its existence is if another dragon appeared through those doors."

"Quite a bold claim... Very well, I shall indulge you a while longer. If only for the way you address me. Have this beast brought here, quickly!"

A servant of some kind rushed to the opposite end of the throne room, commanding the guards stationed outside to bring forth the sack. Two men entered, holding onto it from two ends, their armors ratling incessantly as they struggled to bring Katakan over. With a loud thud, they placed it right of Geralt, bowing and departing following a dismissive wave of Aerys' taloned hand.

"I should warn you, sire, it is a most unpleasant thing to look upon."

"Enough delaying, master Witcher," He barked out, gesturing for him to get a move on. "If you've something to show us, do it! We're no frail waifs to tremble before some beast!"

Bowing his head, Geralt knelt, ignoring how several of the Kingsguard around tensed up. Grabbing hold of one of the top horns, the Witcher waited a moment, gathered his strength, and hoisted it out the sack with one arm. The reaction was about what he expected it to be. Ser Gerold instinctively backed away, most of the people seated at the base of the throne either rose or pushed back into their chairs. Aerys retreated so far he almost seemed to shrink amidst the dozens of swords around him.

"This," Geralt said, his voice loud and strained from the effort of holding the trophy. "Is a Katakan, one of several species of vampires. If you are reminded of bats, then you've already a notion of what this creature can do. It is a being of the night with razor-sharp hearing. At full height, it is taller than a horse, with claws capable of shredding through iron and steel. It is also impossibly quick, capable of slaying a man faster than a bolt can hit a target. And yes, like many species of bats, vampires drink blood. Human blood."

Slowly, deliberately, he turned around in place, letting everyone get a good look at it. Many backed away as though it could still hurt them. Many women and several men even fainted. Ser Gerold and his Kingsguard were ready to unsheathe their blades and attack at any moment. Princess Ellia went closer to the prince's side, growing pale again. The prince himself stared, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Earlier, your highness, you said the title Witcher means nothing? In Westeros, this is true. Yet, in my lands, it means to be a monster slayer. To hunt down creatures such as these who threaten the lives of innocents. Them, and many, many more. I hope you never have the displeasure of crossing paths with anyone of them. Or at least a live one."

"Grand Maester Pycelle," The blonde man who remained seated and directed his steely gaze at the Katakan said. "Inspect the authenticity of this... Vampire."

The old man with the metal chain blinked then seemed to realize he was being addressed to. "O-Of course, my lord Hand."

"Don't worry, it can't hurt you." Geralt assured the man, noticing his apprehension. The Grand Maester seemed to take some comfort from this, hastening his step.

"You said this beast comes from your lands?" The Lord Hand said while Pycelle prodded about the head, checking its eyes, nose, mouth, and hair.

"Yes, from the east, far, far to the east. So far, anything west of our mainland is thought to have nothing but endless sea."

"And you crossed such vast distances to slay this creature? Half the world away, according to your own estimate?"

"I would like to think," Geralt said, meeting the steely gaze with one of his own. His self-control was slipping ever so slightly, perhaps because the Hands resemblance to one particular prick he never wanted to see again grew with each passing moment. "That any man, be they Witcher or not, would pursue this Katakan as I have. One does not so easily forget the sight of inconsolable mothers, wrathful fathers brought low by guilt. Nor does one so easily forgive or forget the cold touch of dead children while inspecting what it is that killed them in the middle of the night. Though I am aware not every man has the means or strength of character to afford themselves such scruples."

Geralt's voice grew less and less respectful with each passing word, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the Hand. The man glared, as though the power of it could make Geralt burst from the inside out. The Witcher unflinchingly returned it. His capacity to bootlick was already spent.

"Grand Maester," The Hand said in a low growl, eyes still meeting Geralt's. "Is there any truth to what he says?"

"Hrm? O-Oh, yes, my lords and ladies!" The Grand Maester said loudly and clearly. "Though I've only performed a cursory examination, I can confirm this is no mummers farce. This... Katakan was it? This beast was in-fact a living creature! Its skin, its hair, its saliva, there is naught false to any of it!"

The crowd, who still could, exploded in a mass of noisy deliberation. The chatter grew more and more intense by the moment. A single raised palm by the Hand quieted them down immediately.

"Continue, Grand Maester."

"This is a most important discovery, my lord. Nothing in any of our tomes and books speaks of such a creature! The value of this head alone from an academic viewpoint is immeasurable. Master Geralt?"

"Yes, Grand Maester?"

"With his graces permission, of course, I would invite you to aid in revealing the secrets of this Katakan. You've already shown us your knowledge on this matter, and if there are others like it, well, we cannot afford to remain ignorant! Who better to aid us than an expert?"

"I agree with the Grand Maester," A second commotion from the crowd almost erupted when the plump, bald man spoke in a loud and effeminate voice. "Though I am the Master of Whispers, he who is to know all the matters of the realm and beyond, I had no knowledge of this creature or the lands Master Geralt speaks of. And though the Witcher has done us a great service today, let us not forget his words: many more of this ilk exist. One man cannot defend all of the Seven Kingdoms, but he can help us defend ourselves, defend the people, through his wisdom and experience. That is why I believe we must allow a place for guest at court."

What happened next caught everyone's attention, even Geralt and the Hand postponed their glaring contest and looked at the top of the throne. Where Aerys, recovering sometime after his initial shock, began to laugh. What began as a light grumble in his throat transmogrified into an obviously deranged cackle, reverberating through the stone walls and marble floor. Geralt couldn't understand it, was he pleased or furious? With the insane, it was impossible to tell.

"Well done, Master Geralt, well done!" Aerys laughed, clapping his hands even as tears began to well up in the corners of his eyes. "Truly, you are a most interesting man indeed! Not only have you saved a princess, a lord commander and slain men and beasts who threatened my realm, but you've managed to stare down the mighty lion of Lannister and make Varys and Pycelle agree on something!"

He cackled even more loudly, this time joined by a large swath of the attending nobility. Much of it sounded forced and grating to Geralt's ears. He ignored them, bowing as well as he could given the thing weighing him down.

"I am pleased to have entertained you, your majesty."

"Oh, you have, you have, and you shall do so again tonight," Aerys said, the fires shining in his purple eyes. "I wish to know more of you and your exploits, Master Geralt! I'm certain a man of your experience has more than his share of stories to tell."

"It will be my honor, your royal highness," Geralt bowed again, already picking and choosing what to steer clear off and what to change.

"Indeed, but you will need a bathe and proper clothing for the event. Tywin," Aerys' eyes descended on the blonde Hand. "Can I entrust you with ensuring the Witcher's comfort in the Red Keep? After all, he is a most distinguished guest and I've already noticed how well the two of you are getting along."

"It will be my pleasure your grace," Tywin Lannister said, bowing and sounding very authentic as he lied. No doubt Aerys noticed their silent struggle, probably paying more attention to it than anything else. Despite his seeming high rank amongst the nobility, the Lannister and king shared little love for one another. Now, Geralt had become one more pawn in whatever sorted little game between them.

He really should have just punched someone out and made a run for it.


	5. Chapter 5

His audience with the king lasted but a short while longer following Aerys' decision to place Geralt under Tywin's care. His weapons and equipment were returned to him post-haste, while the Katakan's head was given to Grand Maester Pycelle. Geralt passed on pertinent information regarding it: silver tools to cut open and examine it more thoroughly and to keep any and all flames far, far away. The Grand Maester, brimming with enthusiasm judging by the ever-present shine in his gaze and smile, nodded, assuring the Witcher no examination would commence without his experienced eye to oversee it.

Tywin personally led Geralt from the throne room, and for this, at least, the Witcher was thankful. Aerys chose this moment to announce the end of the day's court session, many of the attending nobles, courtiers, and the like swarmed to the exit. A great many intended to strike a conversation with Geralt until Tywin's smallest glance repelled them. Very quickly, they placed a considerable distance between themselves and the Lord Hand. Tywin said nothing during their brisque two-man march down the serpentine steps of the great hall, across the vast courtyard where many an eye were upon them.

The two men crossed a drawbridge and chasmic, empty motte into another section of the castle. Here, the sounds of blacksmiths applying their craft became apparent, the pounding of steel against steel, the sizzling of burning metal turning water into vapor upon contact. Dogs barked and howled, some free amongst the guards while others were locked away in rows upon rows of kennels, the persistent cat population which Geralt increasingly took notice of, antagonized them incessantly. These felines too hissed and snapped at his approach.

Their destination, a short walking distance right of the drawbridge, was one of the seven drum towers which so prominently loomed over King's Landing. At its base, the tower was connected to a smaller version of the great hall they'd left. Guards were positioned at its entrance, though these were distinctly different from the Gold Cloaks. These men at arms worse red cloaks over mail shirts, boiled leather. Steel caps they wore, beautified with lion crests. The Lannister man greeted their lord, receiving naught in return and openly staring at Geralt.

A pair of wooden doors were parted for them, revealing the interior of the hall with its high-vaulted ceiling, bench space for two hundred, trestled tables, and Lannister tapestries hanging off the walls. More golden lions against a red backdrop.

"This is the Tower of the Hand," Tywin curtly spoke as they began their ascent up a spiral staircase. "My private audience chamber and personal quarters are at the topmost floor. Yours will be two floors down."

Geralt wished it were lower. On the highly unwanted chance his stay on Westeros veered towards the greater length, going up and down this damnable thing would be troublesome. There were several hundred steps, at least, to traverse. At least his knee no longer ached. A pair of guards snapped to attention, greeting Tywin as he stood before the chamber doors. He glanced over Geralt's body from boots to head, mouth curling at what he saw.

"Servant will arrive shortly to prepare your bath, as will tailors to ensure your clothes for the evening are satisfactory. Should you require anything else, you know where to find me, so long as the matter is of actual significance. Lastly," The Hand stepped forward, his voice dropping. "Forestall any notions of further indulging your insolence. Aerys may find it endearing, I do not. Are we clear, Master Witcher?"

What was clear to Geralt was the fact Tywin Lannister deserved a meticulous boot in his ass. Would the great lion of Lannister yelp like one in such an event? The slightest possibility of this made it an enticing thing to try. Yet given his apparent animosity with Aerys, the mad king would likely award Geralt with lands and titles for such an act. At least with a sane monarch, a rational line of thought made it clear which path would lead to a genuine reward. With maniacs, every choice resulted in some variation of eating shit. Putting this thought to the wayside, Geralt let out a silent exhale and bowed deeply. This way, the insincerity of what he spoke next would only be verbally noticeably.

"My apologies, Lord Hand. Commonfolk and those of lower station are whom I most frequently speak to. My court etiquette is decidedly... Unrefined."

"Your apology is noted," But your slight is neither forgotten nor forgiven was the unspoken follow-up. "Good day, Witcher."

"To you as well."

Handing over the key to the chamber, Tywin departed while Geralt entered his new abode. He spent not a moment taking it in, marching over to the large window decorated with stained glass depicting some field of flowers. As he feared, his approximate guess as to where it faced on the way up was proven correct. It overlooked the east. Geralt saw much of the courtyard below him, many dozens of feet below. The kennels, the smithy from which plumes of grey smoke rose, a stable, a pigsty, a barracks where Gold Cloaks came to and from, a slender four-storied building which overlooked the sea. None of the battlements were near enough. Nor would it matter much, the length of roped required to scale down the tower would be absurd.

"What I wouldn't do for a portal right about now," Geralt muttered, froze, shook his head, and laughed. He stood there a while longer, staring out at nothing at all, knuckles pressed against the stone. Aerys would not give him leave to depart, the Witcher savior was his new court attraction, a warning to the existence of beasts and monsters only he knew how to slay. Given their reaction and ignorance of what a vampire was, Geralt very much doubted they had even a tenth of the Witcher's work his own world still required. And yet, if Geralt did nothing, allowing the Katakan to flee here, it would have butchered dozens, possibly hundreds of children until at last falling. If they ever managed to kill it at all. Highly unlikely with all the available facts taken into consideration.

The only way to learn more was to share his own Witcher knowledge, give and take. After all, magic was present in this world, and just because it was mostly dormant now, did not mean it would stay dormant. Before the Conjunction of Spheres, a great many things taken for granted at present never existed in his world. Humans, for example, if the Elves were to be believed. At the very least, partaking in an informational exchange would give him something productive to do concerning his profession and help kill time until Ciri and Yennefer arrived.

By now, the people of Zrinski must have noticed his disappearance. If the time between their worlds was inverted, no doubt the poor sods were huddled together at night, awaiting the Katakan's next blow. No doubt days of such constant fear and tension would pass before any of them decided to inquire into Geralt's fate. The village being largely ignored would slow the spread of news, Yennefer's information network falling with her reputation would impede it further. Though his love never outright said so, Geralt was fully aware she'd been covertly financing him many times over the years. In more than one conversation, she not so silently grumbled about how he was risking his life for next to nothing.

At the time, monsters grew rarer before the costly second war with Nilfgaard and Catriona plague brought them back to the forefront. Villages and cities were willing to pay less for what was seen as a settlement attraction or pet in certain instances. Until slowly but surely, places in the ass-end of nowhere produced crowns allowing Geralt to not only stave off starvation but keep himself well equipped. Communities so dirt poor you'd sooner find a dragon than gold. Ironically, Geralt ended up spending much of the same funds to help her finance her research into restoring fertility until they met Borch.

The issue was, Yennefer's connections were no doubt still in shambles. After the coup on Thanedd, she was widely branded as a traitor, an agent of Nilfgaard. In the ensuing chaos, her reputation was lost, her back accounts closed, and even Vengeberg itself was brutally sacked, many of its inhabitants put to the sword. Now, with services rendered to the new ruler of the North, she returned there to rebuild her life, settling any leftover business. Geralt most strongly hoped she'd restored everything lost, not only to hurry along with his rescue but for her sake too. He would get his answer if the stay in Westeros stretched out.

If nothing else, making sure nothing happened to Roach would be enough to set his mind at ease, for now. Setting aside the fact he'd left quite a few useful pieces of equipment with the horse such as the lamp, the eye, elixirs, herbs, this Roach was one of the best. Obedient, always ready to come at a moment's notice, capable of galloping vast distances. Some fool selling it for money or killing it for horse meat would make Geralt quite bloody furious. A knock on his door ended his musings, the sounds from the other side forced him to take another, calming exhale. Tywin's servants and tailors had arrived.

The next few hours of the afternoon passed in a most annoying blur of activity Geralt dearly wished he could avoid. Tailors pestered him incessantly, taking then re-taking measurements while endlessly speculating of how to bring out the full effect of his eyes through various boot pairs. Servant girls, while pretty to look at, were ruthless in their efforts of scrubbing him clean. The only thing of worth to come from it was his clothing, truthfully. Unlike the limiting, agonizing doublets of home, the nobility here favored gambesons, even for formal attire. Geralt's light gray one was smooth, comfortable, and quite flexible, affording him much freedom of movement.

Tywin returned just as the sun vanished, his mere presence petrifying everyone. Wordlessly, he walked around Geralt, scrutinizing him until they had eye contact again.

"It will do, come," Geralt did so, following the Hand while casting a final glance at the trunk where his weapons, equipment, and armor had been placed. Leaving it there left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he could do nothing about it. Once they reached the bottom of the tower and exited it through the small hall, a cool evening breeze blew, fluttering the myriad of torches lit around the courtyard.

Silently and brusquely, they walked eastward to the battlements where a large, iron gate opened ahead of them. For a few minutes, they traversed down serpentine steps and winding staircases until they entered another courtyard. That was when Geralt laid eyes upon the residence of the king, a massive square fortress within an already impressive castle. Four towers were at each point, it's immediate surroundings naught by a dry moat lined with formidable iron spikes. Save for the drawbridge, Geralt could see no other path in or out of there.

At the entrance to the fortress, they were greeted by one of the Kingsguard, the princess's uncle.

"My lord Hand, Master Witcher, I bid you both good evening," He bowed, giving them a smile. The Witcher returned it and the bow, Tywin only did the latter.

"Good evening, Ser Lewyn," Tywin said with what appeared genuine respect. "I trust we are not late?"

"... His Grace has already begun, the decision to begin dinner earlier was-"

"Made without anyone deigning to inform me. Yes, very amusing. Come, Master Geralt, it seems we're the last to arrive."

"I shall escort you," Ser Lewyn said, walking behind Tywin to the right while Geralt was to the left. The interior of the fortress was, expectedly, red. It's hallways vaguely malevolent with the thick shadows permeating where the candlelight did not illuminate. "Master Witcher, may I trouble you with a request?"

"Depends on what it is."

"Something you'll enjoy, I'm certain," The tanned man flashed a smile. "In the mornings, we of the Kingsguard train when duty does not otherwise occupy our time. After everything Ser Gerold has told me, I am most curious to see your skills with my own eyes."

"And to put them to the test, no doubt," Geralt smiled back, and the knight expectedly chuckled. "I thank you for the offer, Ser Lewyn. Rest assured, I never miss a chance to keep my skills sharp."

Two more members of the Kingsguard opened the doors for them into a banquet hall bright enough to make Geralt squint. This one was even smaller than the throne room or at Tywin's tower, capable of seating perhaps one hundred guests. Wall sconces were ever-present, explaining the torchlights intense shine. More Kingsguard and servants were either stationed or walked around the single, filled table. All of the people who were present during Geralt's audience were there again, in addition to two others. Both of them shared the looks of the prince, the king, and the purple-eyed lord so interested in Geralt earlier.

One was undoubtedly the queen, not quite forty yet aged beyond her years, her pale face lined with many a wrinkle of grief and worry. The white, otherwise flowing hair was tied into a bum, making the lines more prominent. When she looked at Geralt, she froze. The other was a robust, happy-looking child, with short white hair, sitting next to the queen and humming a tone, in a world of his own. The princes younger brother, no doubt along with his cousin, perhaps nephew as well...

Aerys, looking equally as gaunt and ragged then as in the throne room, came alive at the sight of their entrance. If anyone found it strange he'd reserved a whole quarter of a table fit for fifty, putting considerable distance between himself and the others, they made no sign of it.

"Tywin!" Aerys' rattled voice reverberated against the stone walls. Though there was anger in it, there was obvious derision as well. "Your breach in etiquette would be worthy of scolding by itself, yet, you had to make my guest of honor late as well? Master Witcher, please accept my most sincere apology. A servant can reflect so poorly on the master..."

"Thank you, your majesty," Geralt bowed, ignoring the bitter taste of ass-kissing. "I take no offense."

"You are right, of course, your Grace. It shall not happen again."

Geralt could swear on one of his swords the lord of Lannister made a nigh imperceptible roll of his eyes as he bowed. Aerys gave no sign of noticing it or caring, his blazing purple gaze focused entirely on the Witcher. Taking up a golden cup of wine, the king made one of his servants, a taster, try it first. Once the man did not drop dead on the spot after nearly a minute of awkward silence, Aerys took a sip of his own and laughed, raising the cup high.

"Come, come, my friends!" He gestured to those already seated. "A toast, to our new friend from lands far away, who shall no doubt entertain us well for this evening! Let us all drink, to the Witcher of Rivia!"

Geralt smiled and bowed again at the display as all present followed Aerys' lead. The scent of wine was more welcoming than almost anything or anyone else present in the room. Though he did not intend to get anything close to drunk, he had no intention of making through this farce stone-cold sobber either.


	6. Chapter 6

"How are you enjoying your meal, Master Witcher?"

"This is some of the best venison I've had the honor of eating, your grace," Geralt said truthfully, savoring the elk's earthly taste, the pungent, earthy flavor enhanced by the smooth firmness of the meat itself. The red wine accompanied it perfectly, rich with an aroma Geralt couldn't begin to specify yet enjoyed almost as much as the sweet taste it left behind in his mouth. "And this wine, even the people of Toussaint, would call it a worthy rival to their own."

"Aye, it hails from the Arbor, you'll not find one better in all of Westeros or Essos," Aerys snorted. "No matter how much the Dornish would like to refute this."

The way he all but spat the word Dornish out wasn't missed by the Witcher. Despite being several members of this kingdom present in the room and tied to his family through marriage, they too displeased the paranoid king. Though Geralt could not see Ser Leywn stationed behind him, princess Elia's jaw momentarily clenched as she reached for a cup of wine. The solemn prince sitting next to her offered no comfort, seemingly in a world of his own just as his excitable brother eternally fidgeting in his seat to the queen's never-ending, silent dismay.

This was far from the most offensive thing to come from the mad king's lips. During the start of the feast, while they partook in the warm, appetizing soup, Geralt began an abridged account of his world. He spoke of Temeria, long the strongest of the Northern Realms. The confederation of realms comprised of Rivia and Lyria. Of Cintra and its great lioness. While he spoke of Aedirn, Geralt brought up Dol Blathana, the duchy ruled by elves, a species the Westerosi had no knowledge of.

With a particular interest shown by princess Elia and Grand Maester Pycelle, he spoke of their long pointed ears, canine-less teeth, their tall and lean bodies, and long-lasting youth. He explained how advanced they were, building cities humans still failed to match in splendor and weapons capable of carving through even the finest of human crafts. Their songs and language the envy of many a race across the continent. Many of the things, including capital cities, were taken from and built upon by the elves first and foremost. Geralt's description of their ability to live on for centuries in their physical prime was one of many facts about the story met with bewilderment and doubt, particularly by the Hand and Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted.

"If these elves you speak of are such a force to be reckoned with, why then do men rule, not they?" Tywin asked the fair question. The elves did indeed seem far and away the most powerful race, from what Geralt had told them by this point.

The Witcher's answer was as simple as it was true. "Breeding and pride, lord Hand. The elves, who number among the Elder Races, do remain young, strong even as generations of men wither and die. They also lose their ability to reproduce quite early on in their lives and are slow to bear children even when they are able. Pride cost them when men first came to their lands. The elves thought them a passing thing, something they could ignore, something beneath their effort to deal with. Far, far too late they came to realize how foolish this was. Many of their youngest chose to meet mankind in battle, and in so doing, their species lost its future."

This answer seemed to sadden those most interested in the elves, and please those who doubted their existence. Those who doubted them only while Geralt gave the impression mankind was somehow inferior to anyone else. That they could possibly not be the masters of their own fate. Then, the Witcher spoke of the dwarves, another of the Elder Races, how they only reached the chest of a grown human yet were often sturdier, hardier people than men, dangerous warriors, and savvy businessmen.

Geralt soon came to regret his decision to speak of them. Aerys burst into a fight of loud, grating spasmodic laughter. His taloned fist-pounding rhythmically against the table, each blow making the queen shudder in fear. Glancing at Tywin, Geralt spotted genuine anger in those pale green eyes flecked with gold.

"Do you hear that, Tywin?!" Aerys shouted, bursting into another laughing fit. "A whole people of little imps! Your Tyrion's prospects of marriage aren't so bleak after all!"

The laughter went on and agonizingly on. Accompanied by more jests at the expense of Tywin's son afflicted with dwarfism, each one more tactless than the last. The lord Hand simmered in silence, his self-control impressive enough to earn some genuine respect from the Witcher, along with his pity. Though he disliked the man, had he known of his son's condition, Geralt would have kept his mouth shut on anything regarding dwarves. Aerys' laughter was only stilled when he broke into a coughing fit, his mirth evaporating in the throes of fear. Moving to the conversation on, Geralt chose to focus on the northern wars, finishing short accounts of the first, second, and much of the last until the main dish was at last served. Some semblance of normalcy returned to the feast.

"But enough of wine, let us continue where you left off... The fall of your Northern Kingdoms was it...?"

"Just so, your majesty. The Northern Kingdoms were in their last months referred to as Radovid's Kingdoms or Radovid's Realms. After the swift fall of the other monarchs, to conquest or assassination, Radovid was the only one left to challenge Nilfgaardian's third and largest invasionary force. Their armies clashed a great many times, yet neither one could prevail, they found themselves in a considerable stalemate, particularly about the free city of Novigrad. One of the richest, and most prosperous city's of the north, holding enough coin to finance a whole other army and with the largest fleet of ships. Anyone who took it won the war."

"No doubt this Emperor of Nilfgaard faced a great hardship from his banner-men," Grand Maester Pycelle said, smiling like a child perpetually awarded treats. "His previous two wars were, by your own words, quite costly and not as successful as he wished. Lords and kings have fallen low from but a single defeat."

"His ventures did indeed leave a bad taste in the mouths of not just the nobility, but the merchant's guilds as well whose influence is considerable. The former saw many of their own numbers fall during the last wars, never-mind the fact the Emperor put aside many a prominent daughter from the old families. Robing them of seeing an Empress of their blood rise to the Imperial throne. Trade routes across the continent were naturally in chaos, and the entrepreneurs found fewer and fewer reasons to finance more failed wars. Certainly, it is not hyperbole when I say Emperor Emhyr wouldn't have lived to see the end of the year had Radovid not died first."

"Foolishness," Tywin said, eating the spectacular venison with all the enthusiasm of a corpse. "This Emhyr you speak of should have secured his own power first before attempting another war. To battle against one enemy when many more lie among your own ranks is naught by courting disaster."

"For once, Tywin, we are in agreement," Aerys said, handing another cup to his taster while the lord Hand bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Speak, Geralt! I am most curious to hear the fate of this Radovid, how did he meet the Stranger?"

"The most agreed-upon version of events places the Temerian's at fault for his death. Allegedly, they brokered a deal with Nilfgaard: kill Radovid, and you may enjoy independence as a restored, vassal kingdom. The fact such a state came to be following the war's end is a brazen admission to their involvement for many, myself included. With Radovid gone, his remaining supporters fled to avoid Nilfgaardian reprisal or surrendered in the hopes of getting mercy. Very few of them did, far as I heard. So ended the third Northern War, Nilfgaard reigning supreme across most of the known lands. However, some say their victory was a foregone conclusion in the long term."

"How so?" Pycelle inquired.

"I'm not overly interested in economics, and I'll try not to bore any who share the sentiment by spending too much time on it. To put it simply: the Northern Kingdoms were financially crippled throughout the wars. They'd become increasingly dependent on Nilfgaardian manufacturing and goods to continue functioning."

"A death blow through gold and trade," The bald man Master of Coin smiled knowingly. "Yes, a frightening notion certainly: defeating one's enemy by forcing them into complete dependence of you for anything from food to weaponry. All you'd need to do is halt the sale and transport of provisions to destroy a kingdom or force it into vassalage. It is easy to resist an enemy army, less so when its the grumbling of your own starving belly."

"Father," The young boy spoke up, poking a piece of meat over and over with his fork. "This is boring, I want to hear about the monster, can he tell us about the monster? Please?"

The queen opened her mouth to say something to the boy when Aerys silenced her with a single look. Then, he smiled, probably the most human one Geralt had seen from him thus far.

"Ask, and you shall receive my son, you heard him, master Witcher, the vampire! Regale us with how you hunted the beast down! No doubt, you've crossed paths with many other creatures in your long trek across the world!"

"I too am curious, master Geralt," The Master of Whispers said, cup inches from his lips. "As someone from Essos, I am most eager to hear of your journey through some of my homelands as well. Why simply gaining information on Yi-Ti alone would be worthy of the history books."

Judging by the looks sent his way by many of those attending the feast, it was a unanimous sentiment. Geralt parched his throat with a fresh cup, deciding this would be his last for the evening lest his wits grow dull. He'd considered what to say when they inevitably broached the subject, lie and concoct some fanciful tale of swashbuckling adventure across seas he could not name, lands he had no idea about, even where they stood on the map of this world? No, that would not do. Geralt knew such a narrative would likely fail under even the most basic of scrutiny, nevermind with the likes of Varys or Tywin about. The only other choice was clear, and it was very risky if Westeros' familiarity with magic was as low as he suspected it to be. Still, he'd thought up of some ways to prove its existence and potency from where he comes from.

If the worst came to pass, he'd at least have some cutlery to use as weapons for a start.

And so, Geralt steeled himself, promising his audience a tale less and more spectacular than they might expect. He spoke of Zrinski and its barren mine, of how little of a settlement it was and far off the main path. An irrelevant place as one could imagine, perfect for Witcher's work. He explained how rogues had taken to digging in the prior mentioned mine, hoping to find some leftover deposits to fill their pockets. Instead, they'd only found death when they dug too deep, uncovering ancient elven ruins and awakening the Katakan who'd made them his domain. Once they were killed and feasted upon, the children of Zrinski were next.

The nobility surrounding him were, for the most part, enthralled or interested as he spoke on. The younger princes eye shined bright as Geralt explained his descent down the mineshaft, Pycelle leaned forward as some time was devoted to explaining the contents of the ruins. Aerys seemed to revel in the way his guest spoke of the bloody battle at the bottom of the world. Then the Witcher reached the part where things could very quickly take a turn for the worst: the portal. With utmost honesty spoke of what a portal was, how places in his homelands were connected to others, allowing fast travel across vast distances. How he and Katakan leaped through it, winding up at the bottom of the ocean just outside Kings Landing where the vampire met its end.

Once he finished, Geralt was not in the least surprised to find a slew of dubious, doubtful looks on the nobility of Westeros. Save for three people, the young prince who thought it all very exciting, the spymaster with a thoughtful look on his face and the solemn prince, staring at Geralt as though he only now believed the man was actually there.

"Your grace," Tywin Lannister broke the silence. "If it was not already clear beforehand, it is so now: this man is a charlatan. Come to sleep in beds and partake in meals of those far above his station, he should be removed from the court if not punished for the lies he's sown this evening."

The thought of being banished was an appealing one, with a more sane ruler, Geralt would've thought it likely. With Aerys, it was more probable he'd be burned alive. The Grand Maester's doubt was clear, a look of shame in his eyes as he too thought he'd been played for a fool. By the look on the king's face, he was most definitely considering punishment first and foremost.

"Master Witcher," The older prince said with a melodious voice, one more suited to a bard than a king. "Have you any proof of these claims?"

"Proof of the portal? No, as I said, it was destroyed, which some of you will no doubt find convenient for me to say. Proof that magic exists? I've two in this very room, and more if that's not enough. I will gladly present them all to you, with the king's permission."

"I would suggest we give the Witcher a chance," The spymaster said matter of factly, repeating his success of utterly flabbergasting everyone again. At this rate, Geralt might start liking the spy. "If he speaks the truth, we shall understand the full scope of our ignorance and know what Master Geralt tells us henceforth is genuine. If he has none, then we will have spared ourselves many more wasted hours listening to, as Lord Tywin says, a charlatan."

"I.. Do not know if everything Geralt says is true," the princess spoke, gulping, afraid. "Yet he has saved my life and Ser Gerold's and has asked for nothing in return. What does it truly cost us to give him a chance to prove his claims of... magic?"

"... The three of you united in a cause..." Aerys said, lip quirking upward as a hoarse chuckle came out of him. "You've missed your true calling, Geralt, you should've been a conciliator. Fine, fine, show us this proof. If nothing else, you will entertain me well... Before the fire does."

"Thank you, your majesty," He bowed his head, silently promising to make him choke on a torch if the opportunity presented itself. "My first piece of evidence is this medallion."

Lifting out from under his gambeson, Geralt held it on his open palm, giving all of the government officials of Westeros a good look at it. "This is no simple piece of ornamentation, a Witcher's medallion is one of his most vital tools. Any time it's in the presence of a magical source, it vibrates. The intensity of its shaking is directly related to how close the creature or object in question are. For example, the medallion violently shook as I entered the throne room, even centuries dead, the skeletons of your dragons remain strong with the power. If you require another, closer example, I can point one out in this very room."

Keeping his medallion within sight of all the nobles, Geralt looked back to the entrance of the room, pointing his open palm in its direction. More specifically, on one of the Kingsguard stationed there. Gently, his medallion began to visibly shake.

"That man there has something with a magical presence."

"Dayne!" Aerys shouted, commanding him over with a wave of his hand. "Come closer, I would see more of this..."

The knight clad in white did so, each resounding step of his feet getting a reaction from the medallion. By the time he stood but a few feet away from Geralt, the ornament was quite visibly shaking in every possible direction.

"It's not you," Geralt said, moving his hand up and down the knight until the most visceral shake of the medallion happened close to the man's sword. "There it is. Your majesty, Ser Dayne, may I examine your blade?"

Aerys looked torn between curiosity and fear, the muscles of his jaw were clenched, and he gripped the handles of his chair tightly. "Ser Barristan, stay close to our guest, lest he tries anything..."

The Kingsguard in-question approached, tall and slender from what Geralt could see, with sad, pale blue-eyes. From what little the Witcher could see of his hair, it was blonde, yet his beard revealed streaks of gray and silver. Wordlessly, he positioned himself a few feet away to Geralt's right, one hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword. Slowly, the Witcher rose, turning his back to Ser Barristan. The knight before him was younger, possibly not even thirty with black hair, fair-skinned, possessing violet eyes and a few inches taller than Geralt himself.

With a slow, fluid motion, he unsheathed the greatsword, laying it on the palms of his hands, presenting it for all to see. Despite the blade being approximately five feet in length, the man showed no physical exertion in removing or holding it up. A credit to his strength and experience with it, and most certainly what the blade itself was made from. The faint, shimmering glow of it was ever-present, revealing the roots of its meteorite origins.

"Pale as me on a rainy day," Geralt said, admiring the fine craftsmanship of it. "Let me guess, this was forged from fallen star metal?"

"You've a good eye for swords, Master Witcher," The man said, with the kind of chivalrous voice any knight should have. "Dawn was forged from the metal of a fallen star, according to legends, the blade has been in the Dayne family for ten thousand years."

Geralt whistled softly. "An impressive career for any sword, it must be the envy of every warrior in the Seven Kingdoms. It is also a most potent source of power..."

Once the proximity between blade and medallion was mere inches apart, the ornament shook so violently it leaped out of Geralt's hand. With a swift catch, he caught it before it could land Varys' head. Slowly, he opened his fist and let them see its vibration next to Dawn closely.

"An amusing trick," Tywin drawled. "But have you anything else?"

"The swords I left behind in the Tower of the Hand. Much like Dawn here, they are reinforced with magical properties. Certain features like being able to carve regular steel in two with next to no resistance."

"I can vouch for this," Princess Elia said, more courage in her voice this time. "I saw the battle against the Smiling Knight, no ordinary blade could have cleaved a man near in-half through his sword and armor with a single blow."

"If his majesty will allow it, I would demonstrate more of the blade. I obviously don't intend to cut anyone in half, but I will gladly show the power in my swords by testing them against Dawn. And no, I don't mean fight him," Geralt forestalled any objections, already anticipating their reaction. "In truth, all Ser Dayne has to do is strike against my blade with all his force, the result will speak for itself."

"Dawn is one of the sharpest blades in the Seven Kingdoms," Ser Dayne said, disbelief clear in his voice. "Unless you've Valyrian steel, you'll suffer the same fate as the Smiling Knight."

"I don't know what Valyria is or what its swords can do, but I assure you, I will not fall to your Dawn. Nor will my sword be so much as nicked. And if I am a fraud," Geralt glanced at the Hand. "Then you'll have my head before the hour of the wolf."

"You are either mad or bold, Master Witcher," Aerys chuckled, his as smile predatory as his gaze. "Very well, I shall allow you a final demonstration."

Within the next few minutes, a shuffling of the room occurred. The queen, who's name Geralt learned was Rhaella took the younger prince Viserys out of the room. The boy protested, he wanted to see the fight, his pleas were ignored and echoed well into the hallways away from the ballroom. The servants moved the table aside, Aerys remained sitting, the other dinner attendees were lined up at a wall to his left. Geralt stood in the middle of the ballroom, flanked by all of the present Kingsguard save Ser Jonothor, who was dispatched to retrieve the Witcher's swords. Once he returned, he presented them hilt first.

"My thanks, ser Jonothor," Geralt unscathed the silver sword of the Cat School, taking a moment to observe the faint blue runes already glowing along its length. Bending his knees, Geralt took hold of it with both hands and placed the sword diagonally, inches from his face in a defensive stance. The other Kingsguard unsheathed their blades, anticipating danger and betrayal. Geralt ignored them, save for one.

"Whenever you're ready, Ser Dayne."

The knight looked back to Aerys, receiving less of a confirming nod and more of an impatient wave to get on with it. When he looked back to Geralt, finding no fear in the Witcher's eyes, the man bowed his head, either an apology or recognition of the brave display. Then, with a speed and strength of arms that were no doubt the envy of many warriors as well, meteor and silver blades collided.

The clang of metal against metal was deafening, the Kingsguard and assembled nobility stared as not only was Geralt left standing, his head was still intact, and his stance unbroken. The glow of his runes was plain for all to see, but it wasn't enough.

"Again," The Witcher said, and the knight stared, blinking as though he were mad. Ser Dayne only struck again once a terse command from Aerys told him to. The warrior's second blow was even more powerful and swift than the last. The end result was the same, save for the intensifying glow of Dawn.

"Again!"

On the third blow, Geralt's gambit played itself out. When two weapons, honed and strengthened by magic, made powerful contact, a discharge of pure power could erupt from them. The Witcher had no intention of leaving things to mere chance. Thus he focused on the energy of the runes, stoking it ever so slightly. The detonation was powerful enough to knock Ser Dayne and all the surrounding Kingsguard off their feet, the blue and purple energy blowing out numerous candles, engulfing much of the ballroom in pure darkness.

Princess Elia struggled to maintain balance even as her dress threaten to billow over her knees. Her husbands white hair was blown back in all directions, he resembled a noonwraith. Pycelle's eyes bulged, he and lord Varys struggled to stand, using one another for support. The Master of Coin stumbled back, bumping into Tywin who was taken so aback, he almost performed a pirouette before his back struck the nearest wall. Aerys' fear was plain to see, his body shrinking into the seat even as his crown flew off his head.

Only the Witcher stayed unfazed. He'd already positioned himself in a stance to maximize the odds of staying on his feet. With the room considerably darkened, his viper eyes and glowing rune sword made quite the impression, no doubt. Before he addressed the nobles, Geralt walked over to the fallen knights, aiding them to their feet, asking if they were hurt or bleeding. Some were too stunned to speak, others manage to give thanks.

Then, he turned his attention to the nobles, trying desperately to recover their voices, their dignity, or their air of invincibility. Yet all of them stood silent as Geralt approached the king, blade-in-hand. He stopped fifteen feet away from the gaping Aerys, looked him in the eye, and then knelt. Holding his sword in both hands, the Witcher allowing them to see it clearly in the remaining candlelight.

"As promised, not a nick on it."


	7. Chapter 7

"I suppose you think yourself quite clever for that... Demonstration?" Tywin asked, his scowl the deepest Geralt had seen it thus far. They had returned to the Tower of the Hand posthaste once everything calmed down, and Aerys dismissed them.

The proof of power received the stunned amazement and fear he'd expected it to. For minutes, none of the nobles or knights knew what to say, their very understanding of the world around them irrevocably altered. Even the skeptical lord Tywin, furious though he was, couldn't deny this. For a whole minute, naught could be heard but the footfalls of iron boots, the ratling of chainmail, and the faint, labored breaths of those present. Varys was the first to speak.

"... I do believe Master Geralt has more than proven his tale, Your Grace."

Aerys said nothing, shrunken in his seat, hands trembling on his armchairs and lips parted in dumbfounded silence. They attempted to break him from the almost trance-like state he'd fallen into verbally, to no effect. It was only when his firstborn son touched Aerys' hand that something snapped him out of it. The madman recoiled from the momentary feel as though a snake bit him, cursing prince Rhaegar for his audacity, his impudence for breaking a king's admiration of a spectacular event. Pretty insults to mask the fact he was intimidated, but only up to a point. Soon enough, the rage simmered down, and a mad approximation of good humor overtook the gaunt monarch.

"Well done, Master Witcher, well done! Oh, if my grandfather were alive to see this! Magic, strong again, his joy would have been immeasurable!"

The tirade of grating praise continued for a while, with Aerys soon proclaiming Geralt's immeasurable importance. How the Mater Witcher was an indefinite guest at court whose expertise on the mystical arts must be consulted daily to further their knowledge. It was a small miracle he didn't bestow the official title of Court Witcher or Lord or some combination betwixt the two. Not for a moment did he doubt their desire for his blades, and they could have them, from his corpse. There was not a chance in any hell here, there, or anywhere Geralt would allow the Lytta Neyd mess to repeat itself.

Soon enough, even Aerys grew tired and bid everyone present farewell. Hopefully, all of the day's excitement and his frail body would keep the lunatic bedridden for a while. Geralt did not wish to spend every following evening in his presence. The guests soon dispersed, prince, princess, and most of the Kinsguard and Varys vanishing into the inner fortress' hallways while the rest left it behind. On the way out, Ser Lewyn approached Geralt and surprised him by saying they must do battle tomorrow at any cost. Grand Maester Pycelle similarly insisted on a meeting in the afternoon to begin the exchange of information. It was nice to know he hadn't made himself a pariah already.

Tywin said nothing until they were halfway up the Tower of the Hand, and he commanded, not requested, Geralt's immediate presence in his solar. And there they sat, monster hunter and second most powerful man on the continent on comfortable, finely crafted, cushioned chairs and a table full of countless, neatly organized documents between them. Those and a cask of wine Tywin hogged to himself.

"I think I'm very fortunate to be alive," Geralt said with the barest hint of bite to his voice. "Particularly given the circumstances of my arrival, or do you still doubt my word?"

"I am no fool, Master Witcher, I saw quite clearly what your weapon did. I am also aware of the repercussions of your actions far better than you. Tell me, did your medallion notice Aerys' favored pastime of late?"

"My nose, actually, one doesn't so easily forget the stench of burnt human flesh. Though, I am curious, Lord Tywin, why should my medallion have noticed something?"

"Aerys does not simply burn people alive," The Hand curled his lip, taking a sip of wine. "He uses wildfire for his purposes, or the substance as the Alchemist Guilds would have us call it. Madness and folly more like..."

"Wildfire...?" Geralt raised an eyebrow, an ill-feeling forming in the pit of his stomach.

"It is a volatile, green liquid, allegedly the end result of some sorcery known only to the Alchemists. What is known is the fact it burns almost unlike any other flame, capable of destroying cloth, leather, iron, and steel. It even burns atop water, and it can last a very long time, I can assure you of that..."

"... It's their replacement for dragons, isn't it...?" Geralt concluded, the ill-feeling resembling a pitchfork running him through again. "... Shit..."

"Vulgar yet accurate. Like many of the Targaryen dynasty, Aerys attempted to bring back the dragons, using leftover eggs to resurrect the beasts and secure dominion over the Seven Kingdoms. None succeeded, thankfully, yet the Alchemists Guild, instead of being put to the sword, wormed their way into the king's favor thanks to the wildfire they used in the process'. A rare flight of fancy of his to take root."

"And now Aerys' no doubt regaling anyone still awake enough to listen about how this is a sign of change, how the Master Witcher will most definitely do something fantastic, like resurrecting an extinct species,..." Geralt shook his head, grabbing the cask, nearest available cup and drinking its contents in one go. "When I can't do it, he'll sick every armored fool within shouting range at me... Shit..."

How could he have missed this substance? Did the anger and fear grip and the necessity to control both in the viper's nest make him blind? Did the dragon bone collection and the sensation of power coursing from them to distract him? Or perhaps, the substances other difference from the fire was lack of a distinct scent? There were odorless chemicals, some of them might be used in this wildfire's creation.

The worst part of it all was the fact Geralt knew no other way it could have transpired. His ignorance of this world prompted him into using the truth to avoid the flames, now his ignorance of Aerys' madness meant honesty would bring him to the same endpoint. All he'd done was delay the inevitable, the futility alone was infuriating and disheartening. Perhaps the danger would prompt Ciri to realize he had vanished, however, even this was no guarantee she'd arrive in time to rescue him. It was just as likely she would dream of his death hours after the fact when nothing could be done.

Gripping the arms of the chair tightly, the muscles around Geralt's jaw clenched. The only choice became obvious. "I have to get out of here as soon as possible."

"An unwise decision," Tywin gravelly replied. "Flee, and Aerys will ensure every man, woman, and child from the Wall to the Arbor pursues you. Even in Essos, you will find no lack of assassins and mercenaries to give chase."

"Better that than staying here, at least out there, I've some distance to put between myself and my hunter. Furthermore, I'm no stranger to having some monarch hound me at every turn."

Yet even as he said this, Geralt did not believe it. The reason he was able to survive so long during his search for Ciri deep in Niflgaardian territory and the frontlines of the war came down to his companions. Regis, Cahir, Milva, Angoulême, and Dandelion. They'd fought together, helped each other survive through despair and anger, shared laughs and wisdom, no man could ask for a better hanza. Now, he would be alone, in lands he did not know, where his powers were diminished.

"That does not surprise me, from the way you described the events of the second war with Nilfgaard, it was plain to see you were no friend of theirs. However, I do not believe you will have to flee, not for the time being."

The noblemen sounded so sure Geralt could not help but pause. Tywin Lannister did not strike him as one to make proclamations such as these without thought put in first. The way he spoke of the king pointed to a long familiarity between the two, perhaps even a friendship? He was also the Hand of the King, one of the most powerful men in this part of their world, as a source of information, Geralt could do worse.

"Alright," He sighed, leaning into the chair. "I'll bite, what do you mean, Lord Lannister?"

"Aerys kills those he fears and those he believes he can execute without suffering the consequences. At a glance, you would fit both examples, should you displease him. You are a foreigner, with no lands, titles, bannermen, or any political significance with which to shield yourself. For these reasons and numerous others, your life is easy to end. On these same grounds, you are one he cannot easily threaten. You've no house to lose or family to take hostage, and you've already shown you are dangerous and bold enough to perform feats in Aerys' presence none would dare. If Aerys remained unconvinced and commanded the Kingsguard to strike you down, you would have cut them all down to the last man without hesitation."

Without hesitation? Some of them. Without regret? None of them.

"Yet, these same qualities are what ensured Varys his place in Kings Landing, on the small council no less. Aerys desired a Master of Whispers who was unshackled by blood, vows, or any obligations in Westeros to save his duty to serve the king. No doubt he's already scheming to secure a similar place for you as we speak."

Geralt's gratitude was boundless already.

"For all his madness, Aerys is not entirely without some sense, whether it stems from himself or Varys whispering in his ear is irrelevant. He understands enough to know when someone he fears is too useful to be removed, such as myself. Oh, he may mock me and wish for me to leave the court, but Aerys knows the day I am no longer the Hand of the King is the day the twilight of his reign begins.

"Even if you cannot bring about a second Black Dread, your knowledge of magic is without equal. Were I to indulge in such matters, I would wager a great deal of coin and win such a gamble by saying none in Westeros, Essos, and very likely beyond can grant us the knowledge you've acquired as a Witcher. Use it to your advantage, Aerys will hear of what you share with Pycelle, stoke his fear of the unknown, of the beasts only a professional monster slayer such as yourself can defend him from and his compulsion to keep you alive and well will last long. The head you brought is a good first step in such a plan, tell me, how much did he shrink at the sight of it?"

"So much you could swear the throne was devouring him alive."

The Hand of the King didn't smile, but there was an amused glint in his eye.

"And you're certain Varys is helping nudge things along in such a direction?"

"None can know or understand what web the Spider weaves, that would defeat the point of a spymaster. Yet his interest in you and what you represent is without question, twice he has come to your aid. I do not trust the man or enjoy his presence at court. Nevertheless, his mind is sharp, and only an imbecile would fail to grasp the importance of what you've brought to our attention."

"And what many of you could stand to gain from it," Geralt pointed out, wondering just how far their ambitions reached. Did they merely stop at Geralt's knowledge? Not likely, his swords? Some would find those enough, his loyalty? That was a privilege reserved to few, and none of them earned it through coin or other offers of power.

"Every man stands to gain something from someone," Tywin said, folding his hands onto the table. "Even if you, Master Witcher, perform your services through contracts. Pay and your home will suffer no monsters, refuse, and I bid you farewell."

"Are you offering me a contract?"

"Wise counsel, you've not heard the words of House Lannister?" Geralt shook his head. "Hear Me Roar, though it is often our other, unofficial one which many attribute to us: a Lannister always pays his debts."

"And one should always pay his debts to a Lannister," He said, finding a simple but effective truth there. Assurance of great reward for loyal service and a promise of death for those who fail or refuse it. "Do I count among those for your advice?

"You are a guest from foreign lands, unfamiliar with the ways things are conducted here. Consider this conversation a gift, with no further obligations attached."

"You have my sincere thanks, Lord Lannister, a great many things have become clear to me. Now, with your permission, I would like to rest," Geralt sighed, his easy beginning to feel heavy. "This day has been most... Interesting."

The short walk down the winding stairs and two stories separating Tywin's chambers from his own helped Geralt stave off sleep. Vesemir would call him a city boy for thinking this, but in times like these, a good bed was worth more than contract money. Not that he expected to sleep well that night, or any night in this damnable place. For all the strife between them, Tywin was right, Geralt would be unwise to leave right then and there. He chose instead to follow the Hand of the King's advice, up to a point.

He would trade information for information, learn as much as he could about Westeros, Essos, and any other place in this world. He would bolster his number of allies and friends, find some way to earn coin, learn the ins and outs of the Red Keep for his escape, and then when Aerys and the rest of them least expect him to flee somewhere very, very far away. It would mean stomaching more dinners with the madman, more games and plots between those circling around him like vultures, and perhaps even witnessing another human burning... But he was a Witcher, and stomaching monsters was a skill he'd refined quite well over the past century.

Upon reaching the doors to his chamber, Geralt wished the stationed guards good night and entered. Before the door even closed, his instincts warned him something was amiss. More specifically, his sense of smell, with several long sniffs, Geralt's grip around his sheathed, steel sword tightened as he realized someone had been in his room. Someone besides the servants responsible for bathing and clothing him. It came from the large chest where his equipment had been placed. Upon noticing there was no trap or other surprise like one waiting for him inside, Geralt opened the trunk and quickly went about examining his things.

Whoever went through them was an expert, carefully taking note of where he'd left everything and how before snooping. Not a thing was missing or misplaced, were it not for his Witcher senses, Geralt was certain he'd never notice anything amiss. Yet the scent was there, along with a series of small, faint handprints all over his belongings. They either belonged to a dwarf or a child. Leaving the chest behind, he sniffed out where the scene was coming from. Not the door or window, but from the western wall right next to the garderobe.

He scrutinized it from top to bottom, until around the height of his knee, he found another handprint on a stone. Geralt pushed it, and sure enough, a portion of the wall slid to the side, revealing a secret passageway. It was small, far too small for a man of his size to even fit in. It seemed to run up the length of the entire Tower of the Hand, judging by the rung ladder present and how he could not even see its bottom. Geralt kept quiet, focusing on his hearing to determine if the snooper was still around if they'd possibly spied on him and Tywin. About half an hour later, he stopped, no one could remain quiet for so long, certainly not a child in a passageway.

The thought of anyone going through his things pricked at him. However, it may have also been a blessing in disguise. Geralt already suspected the Red Keep had secret pathways around, the nobility had to possess some means of escape if an enemy force threatened to overtake the defenders. La Valette castle, infinitely smaller than this one, came to mind. Now the proof was there, and though he could not use this one to escape, who said there wasn't another somewhere out there, waiting for him to find it?

Closing the secret passageway back up, Geralt undressed, casting most of his clothing over a nearby chair. He pulled the bedsheets away, placing both of his sheathed swords onto the right side, leaving the left for himself. Then, he removed a single throwing dagger and lied down. The Witcher soon went to rest, meditating with one hand around the pommel of his steel blade and the other, clutching the knife under his pillow.

His last thoughts were of lilac, gooseberries, and Ciri's laughter.


	8. Chapter 8

Geralt's meditation ended moments ere the rooster crowed for the dawn's first light. Nevertheless, he did not stir, moan, or even deign to open his eyes. He simply laid in the luxurious bed for two, remaining still as a corpse, both hands still occupying one blade each. His right one coiled around the pommel of his steel blade under the sheets next to him. The other held the silver throwing dagger below his pillow. After the events of the last evening, the Witcher had many reasons to remain alert.

The night passed without issue. No more spies and snoopers climbed the hidden rung ladder to inspect or steal his belongings. No assassins scaled the length of the tower or its winding staircases to cut Geralt's throat. No contingent of Gold Cloaks, Red Cloaks, and Kingsguard attempted to batter down his door and put him in chains. The only sounds he could hear were the infrequent beats of his own, slowed down heart, seagulls squawking, and one of the soldiers stationed outside his doors yawn so loudly with his deep voice it resembled a bear roar.

Casting the sheets aside, Geralt welcomed the cooling, early morning air on his chest and back. Through the next few minutes, he performed a series of exercises in the middle of his chambers, readying his muscles for the real practice to come. Servants came, carrying water and cloths to clean his face and a bowl to piss in if he required it. To their credit, they did quite a commendable job of not looking too stunned or horrified by his collection of scars. One of Foltest's service during the months spent at Vizima's court shrieked at the sight of them, running through the hallways and shouting that a gravier had invaded the castle.

Once they left, Geralt went about putting his armor and equipment back on. He left nothing behind on the very high chance someone wanted to take their snooping about to outright thievery. By the time he was finished, the sun shined a bright, beautiful orange, most of the night clouds vanishing, leaving a view of the Red Keep and the nearby sea worth spending a minute or two admiring. He bid the guards good morning, and they enthusiastically returned it. No doubt, Tywin gave instructions about the deference their Master Witcher guest was due. Or perhaps his reputation from saving Ser Gerold and Elia Martell already preceded him.

Outside, the castle was well underway to waking up. Guards and sentries who'd suffered through their night shifts were replaced by fresh, ready men. The kennel masters and their aides went about serving food to the local guard dogs. Blacksmiths continued their trade while young apprentices scurried about, preparing themselves to learn or carrying equipment where it needed to be. Geralt traversed through this courtyard, receiving greetings from those close and hushed whispers of awe and speculation from all the rest. He wondered how many of them were spies. The soldiers protecting serpentine steps let him through immediately, citing that Ser Leywn had given them such orders.

"Good morning to you, Geralt! Come and sit!" The knight in-question waved him over, sitting at a table to the right of the white, slender tower Geralt noticed the knight before, the headquarters of the Kingsguard, no doubt. The member of House Martell was not alone, another of Aerys' elite bodyguards sat next to him, his armor near identical save for a helmet emblazoned with a black bat. His hair was pushed back, letting his prominent brow and fierce gaze achieve maximum effect. Such a look must have disheartened many of his opponents.

"To you as well, Ser Lewyn," Geralt said, sitting down opposite the two men. "And you, Ser...?"

"Ser Oswell of House Whent," He said, bowing his head and offering a smile. "And the man who's shoulder is still sore from your blade."

"My apologies for that, the circumstances were-"

"Say no more, I'm a warrior, Master Witcher, sometimes a man must do what has to. Elsewise he might as well throw himself upon an enemy's sword."

"Preferably not the kind you wield," Ser Lewyn smiled as he drank a cup of wine. "I thought my niece was merely coloring the truth when she said you carved the Smiling Knight in half, now I think its a wonder you simply ended there."

"Let's just say I was going easy on him," Geralt said drily. "If you don't mind me saying, you're taking my demonstration from last night surprisingly well."

"I've been crossing swords with Arthur Dayne since he was but a squire," Ser Lewyn said. "Strange blades are no stranger to my eyes. Besides, it's not every day you get a chance to fight something like it."

"And I grew up in the ruins of Harrenhal, Master Witcher. Means nothing to you, I'm sure, but you'll be hard-pressed to find a more accursed place in all of Westeros. I saw and heard many a strange thing in its vast halls before I could even ride a horse."

"Such as?" Geralt asked, intrigued by what constituted as accursed in these lands where even a small power discharge was considered a great feat.

"I cannot say," Ser Whent smiled nastily. "Mayhaps a sword to my throat may aid me in remembering."

Geralt, understanding what the knight was plotting, answered with a similar grin.

"Remember, Oswell, the Witcher, and I are the first to go."

The thought of fighting them both at once crossed Geralt's mind, but he decided otherwise. Such a suggestion might cause unnecessary friction with the only people he may strike a genuine rapport with save, perhaps the princess. Furthermore, this Harrenhal place piqued his interest, he wished to hear a firsthand account of what transpired there, something a book from Pycelle wouldn't do. Taking them on one on one was the safer way of getting it.

And so the two of them departed, entering a ring designated for sparring practice by a circle of wooden barricades thirty feet wide. Facing south, was Ser Lewyn, his white armor practically glowing in the early morning sun, he very image of a knight and no doubt the focus of many swooning ladies despite his age. Geralt, by comparison, no doubt, appeared closer to a mercenary with his leather jacket lined with silver chainmail around the arms, shoulders, and stomach areas, spiked gloves, and worn leather boots. Not that the others present at the courtyard seemed to mind from the hushed whispers passed between them.

"Is that the Witcher?"

"Who d'you think'll win?"

"Get on with it, I need t'go to the privy!"

"The first man whose back touches the ground losses, agreed?"

"Agreed," Geralt replied, unsheathing his steel sword. Ser Leywn did the same, using no shield whatsoever. Following mutual nods to begin, they did not attack one another right away, opting to slowly walk in a circle, Geralt to the right, Lewyn to the left. The Witcher held his blade in one hand, pointed for a thrusting move, his back and knees hunched ever so slightly. The Kingsguard kept his back straight with hands wrapped around the pommel of his sword.

It flashed less than a moment before he swung, aiming at Geralt's chest. The Witcher blocked, deflecting the blow to the side, but Ser Lewyn used the motion to his advantage, repositioning himself for an overhead strike. Geralt leaped back then sidestepped when Lewywn diverted a blade ready to hit the ground into a swing to the knees. Geralt's counterattack struck him in the side of the helmet, scrapping it just enough for the noise to rattle the knight without so much as cutting a hair on his head. Lewyn broke off, knowing he'd lost the initiative which the Witcher would not give back so readily.

Applying the principles of the Fiery Dancer, he responded with a dervish of quick blows accompanied by twists of his wrists to maximize a continuous momentum. Each strike resulted in one more in an increasing series of small cuts similar to what he'd already done. Another piece of his helm fell off, one of his gauntlet straps came undone, the corner of a shoulder pad hung and clanked loosely against the rest of his armor. Leywn could not attack as Geralt pushed him back further and further, nor could he defend, because Fiery Dancer's motions, ensured Geralt always hit, while his enemy desperately tried to so much as meet the sword.

Ser Lewyn was not done, however, instead of retreating in the face of a strike designed to carve a diagonal slash across his armor, the warrior from Dorne instead held his ground. Geralt immediately recognized the danger of this and used a side-leap to put some distance between them, and more importantly, not cut into Lewyn's flesh.

"A risky thing to pull, especially for a sparring match."

"As strange as it may sound," The Kingsguard side, panting and smiling. "I trusted you not to hurt me, you've more than shown more the precision of your blows!

The Dornishmen lunged, beginning a series of seemingly unconnected staccato movements. A menagerie of low and high swings, emphasizing speed and power to overwhelm the opposition. It was all Lewyn could try, overpower Geralt before he found himself overwhelmed again. The Witcher rarely blocked, opting to deflect the sword blows and dodge, waiting for the proper moment to strike. It came when Leywn thrust. Borrowing a move from Eskel, Geralt tensed and waited then swung in a reverse grip, striking the Dornishmen's blade. It happened so quickly, and in such an unorthodox manner, the Kingsguard could do nothing but stumble in a vain attempt to keep his balance before his back hit the ground.

The reaction from those observing the battle was loud indeed, possibly loud enough to wake up and irritate Aerys. Many were thrilled, some were dismayed, others already began proposing bets to one another for the fight to come. Geralt walked over to the Kingsguard and offered a hand, Ser Lewyn, coughing but smiling, accepted it gladly.

"Well fought, Ser Lewyn."

"Same to you," He chuckled, waving the complement aside. " Seven Hells, I've not seen someone move like you since I last fought with my nephew. Though he favors spears over swords."

"I've no doubt the Red Viper and Master Geralt would provide us with a battle worthy of songs," Ser Whent said, entering the arena. He was half a head taller than the Witcher, and unlike the Dornishmen, accompanied his blade with a pure, white shield. "But now, I think it is my turn."

"By all means, Ser Oswell," Leywn said, giving his fellow Kingsguard a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I eagerly wish to know which one of us will end up losing quicker."

Just as before, Geralt stood at the north while Ser Whent stood south, the broad-shouldered knight was a fierce sight indeed. Not as large as the Smiling Knight, yet his white armor adorned with the black bat on its helmet created a fearsome first impression. Geralt's issue lied in how to defeat him, were this a battle to the death, it would be a simple matter to dart around, cut him at the joints then behead the knight. Or a reasonably powerful Aard would break his guard and leave him vulnerable for a stab through the throat. Speed and intricate swordplay would not do for this battle, it was time to use the Temerian Devil.

Knees bent and sword held with both hands over his head, Geralt nodded his assent to begin and stood his ground as Ser Whents heavy footfalls closed to the distance. He did not move so much as an inch, eyes boring into the slit where the warrior of Harrenhal could see through. It was only when his blade reached the halfway point of its swing did Geralt answer. The force of his counterattack was of such strength, it very nearly knocked the sword out of Oswell's hand, forcing him to stagger back. Spinning in concert with the momentum, Geralt performed a diagonal pirouette and struck again, slicing a deep line across his opponent's shield, unleashing a grating sound of creaking metal and sparks.

Ser Whent was not deterred by this, reasserting his balance and striking again in a string of slow but powerful blows that would've been able to cut Geralt to pieces, if he allowed them to. Instead, he met each and every strike, using the inertia and momentum of the exchange to carry him into each successive blow. Ser Whent lasted a while, longer than most men would have, but his armor and fading stamina next to Geralt's speed, footwork, strength, and redistribution of kinetic force back at him could only end one way. With a final pirouette, Geralt put some distance between the two of them and leaped, high into the air, sword over his head. When it came down, the impact of the Witcher's fuller struck Ser Whent with enough force to send the man crashing down onto the ground.

The crowd's reaction was even louder this time, forming a veritable chorus of cheers and dismayed curses. Many men would drink well tonight, while others would face the ire of many a wrothful spouse. Ser Oswell stayed on the ground, his breathing labored. Geralt let out a single, inaudible huff then walked over to him. When the knight from Harrenhal reached out to move his faceplate, he noticed a sword pointed at his throat.

"How's your memory, Ser Whent?" Geralt smiled nastily.

The Kingsguard returned it. "Sharper than that sword of yours, I'd wager."

* * *

"A vampire addicted to blood and... Alcohol?"

"I didn't believe it myself, Grand Maester, yet the situation was thus. The Katakan had been preying on people in the city of Oxenfurt for several weeks. Most of them died, save for a young woman. The victims were unlike each other in every possible respect. Save for the fact they had a fondness for the bottle. Alcohol becomes more and more present in the bloodstream, the more one drinks it, so a vampire addicted to both substances would have no choice but to target drunkards.

"How did you succeed in defeating such a creature?"

"The only way I knew how: by getting shit-faced drunk myself. I must've roamed around the streets for a good long hour at night, singing until my throat was sore and earning the ire of many a decent sleeping citizen and patrolling guardsmen. Eventually, the Katakan did come for me, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't one of the more... Interesting fights in my career as a Witcher."

"Master Geralt," The Grand Maester smiled, a playful look in his eyes. "Are you jesting with me?"

"You overestimate my imagination, I couldn't come up with this if you paid me a chest full of gold."

The two men laughed, sitting across from one another at a large, oak desk covered with pots, jars, cups, parchments, books, flasks,... Inside the Grand Maester's quarters. All around the spacious chamber capable of fitting upwards of twenty people inside, many more tomes, chests full of ingredients Geralt could and could not recognize by smell alone littered the place. It was far from messy, however. Despite serving as one of the primary advisors to the king, offering knowledge of a wide assortment of subjects from medicine to history, the Grand Maester kept his quarters neatly organized.

One of the many side desks, currently covered with a thick blanket of cloth, served as the new home for the Katakan's head. Following the morning spent sparring or talking with the Kingsguard, Geralt received word that Pycelle was ready to meet with him. His tower was built along the same battlements as the White Sword Tower. The Witcher could hear the cawing of ravens from its upper levels throughout his entire stay. He was warmly welcomed, offered food, and drink before they began going about their business.

It reminded the Witcher of his tenure at Oxenfurt, though he was the professor this time. Throughout their talk, Geralt explained the capabilities of the Katakan's eyes, its night vision, how their saliva contained a small dose of poison to weaken their prey. At the Grand Maester's behest, he removed samples of the creature, one fang, a piece of its horn, offered the heart, all to send over to the headquarters of the Maester's, the Citadel to verify all of Geralt's claims. Eventually, conversation passed on to other forms of vampires.

The Plumard, the closest in appearance to ordinary bats. Yet as big as a small child and with a fondness for overwhelming their prey in swarms. The Garkains, pack beasts who hang on ceilings, leap across rooftops and are so ugly they're frequently mistaken for gargoyles. Ekimma's, close in appearance to Katakan's and who's bestial savagery almost always resulted in horrific mutilations. The higher vampires, such as the Bruxa's, Nosferat's, Alps,... Took more time to explain. How some could appear like men and women, others enjoyed invulnerability to the sun. Pycelle listened vigorously and dutifully, writing down everything spoken with a speed of a man half his years, his enthusiasm matching a students rather than an experienced masters. The Grand Maester's surprise that vampires drink blood more like an addiction than an actual necessity inevitably brought them to the Oxenfurt contract.

"The hour grows late," Pycelle said, looking out the nearby window toward the setting sun. "I fear we may have lost track of time. Still, I've not spent an afternoon this pleasant in many a year."

"Likewise, it's not every day I get a chance to share a Witcher's knowledge. Most of my friends and associates either know these facts already, or they grow bored when I try delving too deep."

"It is a difficult subject matter," Pycelle ran a hand through his greying beard, eyeing the concealed Katakan. "Facing but one of these monsters... Why it would be enough to drive most men to madness. Ah!" He shouted, slapping his desk. "How foolish of me! Please, wait a moment!"

The Grand Maester said, sifting through his desk until his hands found a particular tome. "I meant to show you this already, but in all the excitement..."

The book, written in a language Geralt couldn't read, contained a multitude of illustrations and maps. Some concerned Westeros, others Essos, some of the other drawings were of creatures Geralt recognized instantly. Griffons, krakens, unicorns, the one Pycelle stopped on was of an overlarge, fanged bat with folded wings and a bloated, red belly.

"There is a land to the far south-east of Westeros known as Sothoryos. We know precious little of it, save for tales describing a land of great forests, stretching out as far as the eye can see. Where men are bestial, countless deadly diseases run rampant, and beasts not seen elsewhere thrive. Eyeless cave dwellers, great moths with a taste for man-flesh,..."

"And vampire bats, it sounds like the kind of place I'd earn a lot of coin. If these tales ring true."

"My skepticism of such stories was always great, you understand, naught, but the drunken tales of sailors wrongfully chronicled in a vain attempt to acquire knowledge. Yet when I laid eyes upon the Katakan... The similarities," Pycelle shivered. "They could not be discounted so readily. Even less after what you've shared with me. I know Sothoryos is a land unknown to you, but in your expert opinion, could the vampires of those strange places, and your own homelands be one and the same?"

Geralt did not immediately answer, expecting this particular question to come up sooner rather than later. Even in his explanation of portals the night before, he said he'd come from a distant land, not another world outright. Not necessarily untrue, more of a play on words rather than an out-and-out lie.

"Truthfully? Your guess is as good as mine. Vampires, along with many other creatures, are not indigenous to my homelands, in fact, humans aren't either. They and many other beings I've yet to tell you about arrived during a particular event, one that irrevocably changed everything. We call it the Conjunction of Spheres."

"An event of magic, yes?"

"One that has not been seen again for well over a millennia," Not counting the near-Conjunction when Ciri destroyed the White Frost. "Countless beings, from across just as many strange, unknown lands, appeared in ours, some benign and harmless, others impossibly dangerous to the very ecosystem of a place not made for them. It's also at this point when magic, or the power, became more pronounced, allowing for the forging of special weapons imbued with it."

And a great many other things Geralt wouldn't share, not so long as Aerys ruled over Westeros.

"Through the portals you mentioned?" Pycelle asked then shook his head in dismay when Geralt nodded. "Gods be good, from what you've described, a single vampire would have caused irrevocable destruction across the Seven Kingdoms. The mere thought of hundreds or thousands of them alone arriving, amidst many others, I'm sure... Gods be good... It is little wonder your profession came to be, Master Geralt."

"The situation has calmed down, considerably but yes... In those days, it was chaos, pure and simple. So many of the creatures stranded from the Conjunction were unused to living on those lands. Their natural habitats, prey, and predators were all gone. Some managed to survive, either by finding a close equivalent to all three, others by integrating themselves into society. Many others... Were not so fortunate."

"When did this Conjunction of Spheres occur, if I may ask?"

"The precise date isn't known, generally speaking, it is agreed upon to have occurred fifteen hundred years ago."

Pycelle stroked his beard again, a thoughtful look on his face."...Could it have been four centuries ago?"

Geralt wanted to outright say so, Regis' age at the time of his death alone made this impossible. Nevermind multiple other events and lifespans of people and creatures. "I doubt it, why? Did something occur then."

"The Doom of Valyria," The Grand Maester said with a grave voice, as though the weight of ages was upon his words. "We've not the time to go over it in greater detail today, yet I can pass on several noteworthy works for you to read in your chambers."

"You have my thanks, Grand Maester, what can you tell of this Doom right now?"

"Valyria, or the Valyrian Freehold, was the greatest civilization the world had ever seen. It encompassed most of Essos, reaching as far as the Free Cities and the island of Dragonstone near King's Landing. It was a civilization of immeasurable power, mundane and arcane, built upon the backs of slaves, blood magic... and dragons. It is said these magics allowed them to bread the great fire breathing beasts, to bring the world to heel. Many attempted to challenge the Valyrian's dominance, none succeeded, the dragon riders power was simply too vast for any conventional strength of arms to defeat."

"And then something went wrong."

Pycelle gravely nodded. "It is said, that on the day of the Doom, every hill for five hundred miles exploded, unleashing fire, smoke, and ash unlike any seen before or since. Such was the force of these eruptions that even the dragons, capable of withstanding great fires, perished as men, women, and children did. Palaces and cities were destroyed by Earthquakes, lakes, and seas boiled, the Valyrian peninsula itself was shattered into many islands that remain to this day. In but a day, the Freehold was no more. Save for House Targaryen, which escaped the Doom and survives to this day."

Such as it was."Judging by your question on relating the Conjunction to the Doom, I'd venture to say the cause of this destruction has yet to be determined?"

"Most commonly, it is said to have been a natural occurrence, nothing more, nothing less. The septons would have us believe the Valyrians dug into the very seven hells themselves and brought the wrath of the gods upon themselves."

"A third group suggests blood magic played a role."

Pycelle nodded. "A fellow Maester of mine, one who will no doubt be most interested in meeting you, should he be here and not abroad, believes this to be so. That the very power which gave birth to the Freehold sealed its Doom, they could not control it any longer, or overplayed their hand and so brought cataclysm upon themselves."

"Not impossible," Geralt said, looking at his swords placed against his chair. "Even imbuing a simple rune inside a blade can horribly backfire if one lacks practice, knowledge, or skill. The kind of power they were using... It's a wonder they only destroyed themselves. Has anyone successfully explored the ruins? Or is the land still dangerous?"

"Several have attempted, with no success. King Tommen II of House Lannister, attempted to do so decades before Aegon the Conqueror's campaign. He was never seen or heard from again, the Valyrian blade of House Lannister disappearing with him."

"Ser Arthur mentioned those to me, another product of the Freehold's magic?"

"Valyrian steel is of unmatched quality. Though I am no warrior, a great many have attested to their longevity, durability, lightness, and unmatched cutting power. Such is its quality and its rarity today there are naught by approximately two-hundred such blades remaining in Westeros. Heirlooms of noble houses great and lesser."

From that moment on, Geralt swore to take extra precautions with his swords...

* * *

"Tell me, Master Witcher, what do you know of dragons?" Aerys sacked that evening, inviting Geralt, the rest of the noble family, and the small council to another dinner. Though, the attendance this time was lesser. Princess Elia was not present, probably on account of her health, neither was the Master of Coin who all but bolted out of the ballroom yesterday.

Save for the Kingsguard, the king and Geralt, the only others there were Tywin, Pycelle, Varys, and Prince Rhaegar. The Hand of the King sat directly opposite of Geralt, with the king's son to his immediate right. Varys sat to the right of him while Pycelle sat down to Geralt's left. As before, Aerys reserved a quarter of the table all to himself. There was a squadron of food and wine tasters around him.

Their beverage for the evening was a red, sweet, and fruity Summerwine. Accompanying the skin seared boar was bacon, ribs roasted with garlic and other herbs, pigeon pie and salads of sweetgrass, spinach, and plums to name but a few. Aerys let the first part of the dinner pass pleasantly enough, showing admirable restraint. Geralt half expected him to blurt out the question before they were back in the cleaned-up ballroom. On the opposite end of the table, Tywin didn't outwardly stir at the question, nor did he need to, Geralt knew he'd anticipated this as well.

"A great many things, your majesty," Geralt replied, wiping his chin with a cloth. "Very few paint a good picture, I'm afraid. The history of the species in my homelands is quite grave."

"They are extinct as well?" Aerys said, a dark look in his eyes.

"Not yet, but very close. Their numbers have been diminishing for hundreds of years, ever since the arrival of mankind to the lands, we know today as Nilfgaard or the former Northern Kingdoms. Ignorance and greed have driven them to the brink of annihilation. There is not another species quite as vilified as a dragon."

"Enough prattling around the issue!" Aerys snapped. "Speak clearly, now!"

"Castles are thought of as the ultimate defense, against nature, against animals and monsters, against other people. It doesn't matter what species you belong to, this is a universal truth between them all. Castles represent the height of civilization, of security from all the dangers lurking out there, in the untamed wilds. They can indeed resist many fearsome beasts I've hunted over the years."

"Yet they cannot resist a dragon," Lord Varys said, smiling faintly.

"Yet they cannot resist a dragon. For they are great beasts, capable of spewing fire and flying above even the tallest of battlements. A scourge to mankind like no other, worthy of the greatest contempt. If I had a golden coin for every ballad, story and tale portraying them as evil incarnate, I'd have enough money to buy a castle of my own.

"In my homelands, dragons are also known to have great treasure troves in their lairs. The finest amethysts, jewels, and other priceless diamonds. Enough wealth to turn a beggar into a king overnight. Dragons themselves are a great source of alchemic ingredients, rare ones which can only be acquired from their bones, teeth, scales, and even wings."

Geralt took another sip of wine, his throat growing sore from all the talking he'd done. "Lastly, dragons have many cousins, lesser beasts who can neither lay siege to a city single-handedly nor spew fire. To the peasantry and even much of the nobility, one overgrown lizard who can fly is the same as another. And so, often for the acts of their lesser kin, the dragons themselves paid a considerable price of blood for it."

"At the hands of humans and Witchers, no doubt," Varys asked, taking a small drink from his cup. "After all, a great many men would pay dearly for a dragon, as you've explained to us."

"A great many must have tried, yes, and they've all failed. Witchers don't kill dragons."

"Truly?" Prince Rhaegar said. "I would think a beast hunter would not discriminate."

"With many creatures? You would be absolutely correct, yet, exceptions exist and dragons number among them. For they are no simple nekker or drowner, the dragons of my lands are sentient creatures."

Everyone present at the table looked at him as if he'd grown a second head. Aerys and Prince Rhaegar in-particular were stunned, amusingly, this was the sanest the king had looked since the Witcher crossed paths with him.

"Master Geralt..." Pycelle said, slowly, uncertainly. "Do you mean to say...?"

"That dragons are capable of thoughts and feelings akin to humans? Yes, this is known among us Witchers. Of the tales I know coming from reputable sources, the dragons who've interacted with mankind have shown incredible benevolence, and even, dare I say it, human decency. Years and years ago, one particular dragon attempted to create her own kingdom where elves, dwarves, and even humans could live together in peace."

"A kind dragon? A dragon with scruples?!" Aerys said, all but spitting out the word. "Ridiculous, a dragon has no business thinking for itself, least of all with compassion! They exist only to listen to the commands of their rider, to burn and destroy their enemies to the ground! The Black Dread would not have hesitated setting Aegon's foes aflame!"

The compulsion to point out how the bestial Valyrian dragons were extinct while the so-called, scrupulous ones of his lands still survived was strong. Aerys' tirade continued on, speaking of the Valyrian breeds superiority, their unmatched power, and all he could do with it. Judging by Tywin's imperceptible eye roll, this was far from the only time he'd praised them so highly, despite never seeing more than a dead egg.

"What say you, Master Witcher?" Aerys said, focusing back on Geralt, an intense look on his face. "Would you accept a contract on The Black Dread? A creature with neither scruples nor mercy?"

"The largest dragon in the throne room?" Geralt smiled, shaking his head. "Not if you gave me an army of one million men and half the Seven Kingdoms as a reward."

The brazen statement achieved its desired effect, Aerys' eyes lit up like an excited child's, his chest heaving up and down as he chortled. When he could, he spoke loudly and at length of the Valyrian dragons superiority, of such great power even a man born and bred to kill monsters would refuse to fight one. For the next half hour, Geralt played along with it, letting Aerys' glee at his apparent inferiority sink into the king's mind. A simple look at Tywin from across the table told him he'd played this well.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

"Easy lad, we'll get there shortly. From the way you keep stirring about in that saddle, you'd think the Red Keep was about to flee from us."

"My apologies, Lord Crakehall... I'm merely..."

"Bursting with excitement? Aye, I know the feeling well, you should've seen how I shook on the sail over to the Stepstones. Like a septon trying to hold it in during an overlong prayer."

Jaime laughed alongside Lord Crakehall and his fellow squire Merrett Frey as they rode with the retinue from Crakehall, through the Lion's Gate where the Goldroad to Lannisport began. Visenya's Hill rose to greet them, the Great Sept of Baelor serving as its seven-pointed, crystal crown. Farther to the north loomed the husk of the abandoned Dragonpit, its blackened walls, and split dome appearing like the largest lump of coal in the world. The stench was foul then as it was when he and Cersei visited the city as children, during simpler, happier days and its streets just as crowded. Jaime, however, cared not for most of it, his eyes were saved only for the Red Keep and what awaited him inside. Or rather who.

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Ser Barristan the Bold. Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull. Ser Oswell Whent. Ser Lewyn Martell, and all the other members of the Kinsguard, some of the finest men to ever earn their way to this elite group of knights. Spoken of in the same breath as many other warriors such as Ser Duncan the Tall and Aemon the Dragonknight. Men with whom he would spend the next few weeks training under to hone his already impressive skills with sword and lance. Father had made the arrangements some months ago, and his intent was clear: impress these gods among men and earn yourself a proper knighthood, for the prestige of House Lannister. Jaime would've done it for nothing at all.

He was eager to see Father as well, the great lion of House Lannister, who made their family a force to be reckoned with. Cersei would be there as well, earning her place in Kings Landing two years earlier, to Jaime's eternal shame and wroth. They hadn't seen each other since they were both children, what with Jaime serving as a squire for Lord Crakehall, and Cersei, a lady in waiting for Princess Elia. They never missed the chance to send letters to one another. No doubt by now she'd grown to be one of, if not the, most beautiful ladies in all of the Seven Kingdoms. Still, Father and Cersei, though beloved, could not replace the Kingsguard in his mind. Or the Kingswood Knight.

In the past weeks, news of the Kingswood Brotherhood's crimes reached as far as the westerlands. Murder, robbery, taking nobility as hostages for coin. Numbering among them was the Smiling Knight, a man whose repute for madness, plundering, and mastery of the sword already preceded him. A man who's skill were said to equal even the finest of the Kingsguard. Jaime wondered, even dared to hope, that their invitation to King's Landing would coincide with a possible hunt for the Brotherhood. To cross swords with the Smiling Knight, it was terrifying and magnificent to even consider. Little did they know but, a few hours ago, someone already had and won.

The night before, their party took shelter in an inn called the Golden Horn, some leagues away from Kings Landing. After handsomely paying the owner for a fine meal and decent enough ale, Lord Crakehall asked -with more gold in hand- about the Brotherhood. When the man said they were all but wiped out, including the Smiling Knight, Jaime stared as though his own mother had returned from the dead to slap him in the cheek. A week past, Princess Elia ventured into the Kingswood alongside Ser Gerold Hightower and a group of soldiers when the Brotherhood came upon them. They were very nearly captured themselves until a man appeared and singlehandedly ended them, slaying the Smiling Knight in single combat.

When Lord Crakehall offered more coin, the innkeeper said he'd not seen the man personally, though some of his friends in King's Landing purportedly did. He spoke of a pale man with strange eyes, white hair, and two swords across his back, ridding alongside Ser Gerold Hightower himself on the way to the Red Keep. From there, rumors spread about the city and soon beyond it of a monster slayer from faraway lands, dining with King Aerys. Some even called him a sorcerer though neither Jaime nor Lord Crakehall paid heed to this. What was certain, however, was his victory over the Brotherhood. The singers and bards took but a day to proclaim him the Kingswood Knight.

Could his skill match the tales? Jaime wished for it to be so yet doubted it all the same. Even Barristan the Bold and Ser Arthur Dayne could not hope to destroy all of the Brotherhood alone. No doubt, this stranger merely arrived in time to aid the princess and Lord Commander, joining their ranks and defeating the brigands together, reaping the glory and prestige thereafter. All the same, a man who could defeat the Smiling Knight was one to look out for. And they'd heard nothing of him leaving Kings Landing...

Soon enough, the Red Keep came into sight, its many battlements and red domed towers creating a striking imagine now as they did during his first visit. It was no Casterly Rock, not even close, yet for the capital city of the Seven Kingdoms, home of the Iron Throne, Jaime decided the second place was respectable enough. The main gate opened to them, and the moment Jaime spotted the Gold Cloaks sparring in the first yard, his own sword hand itched for battle. A welcome host waited for them as well, servants and stableboys helping them with their belongings, putting their horses away.

Lord Crakehall dismounted first and was approached by a messenger. Jaime did not hear what they said, yet the older man's wolfish grin was to his liking.

"Lord Tywin will not be meeting with us till tonight, too much work to be done. We'll have to find other ways to occupy ourselves."

"As you say, my lord," Jaime smiled back, bowing his head. Once Merrett Frey, clumsy oaf that he was, accomplished the daunting task of removing himself from his saddle, Lord Crakehall led them through the Red Keep, regaling them of the great tourney held after the War of Ninepenny Kings. It was the last great war of Westeros, over twenty years past. Lord Crakehall fought against the final Blackfyre pretender on the Stepstones as a young man barely older than Jaime was now. He'd earned his knighthood upon witnessing and promptly avenging the death of Lord Jason Lannister, killing all seven men responsible for unhorsing and butchering the westerlands commander. Lord Jason was Jaime's grandfather through his mother, and Lord Crakehall's act was never forgotten by Father. Elsewise, his son would've found another knighted lord to squire for.

Jaime knew of Lord Crakehall's achievements at the tourney and so only paid half as much attention to this retelling, focusing instead on the White Sword Tower growing larger by the moment. Merrett Frey, who also knew the tale, played lickspittle gloriously and feigned more interest than he honestly had. Crossing through the second courtyard and down the winding, serpentine staircase, the sound of battle grew louder, Jaime's excitement intensifying with every distinct clash of steel against steel. His lips and throat were dry, his heart thumping like a war drum. When he laid eyes upon who was sparring, it most definitely stopped dead for a moment.

Two men stood in a large, thirty-foot wide sparring ring. The first was younger than his adversary, even younger than Father. His hair was short and black, his greatsword blunted and sparring attire simple. Jaime knew it was Ser Arthur Dayne immediately, not from his looks but from the way he moved. His greatsword weaved in ways that should have been impossible, an endless dervish of motion so easily and quickly done one would assume he exerted no effort at all. Even more impressive given how Ser Arthur's body did not betray his strength. None in Seven Kingdoms could wield a greatsword like him.

His opponent was the Kingswood Knight, without question. His white, shoulder-length hair was tied back halfway into a tail. Two swords were on his back, yet he used a blunted longsword regardless. He did not wear the training garb of Ser Arthur, instead using a queer leather jacket with chainmail built into its shoulders, stomach, and arms. None of this stunned Jaime, the fact he was matching Ser Arthur blow for blow did.

The Sword of the Morning, thanks to his long blade, naturally enjoyed far greater reach, yet the Kingswood Knight seemed impervious to this. His blade moving in such confusing, intricate yet random motions Jaime had never seen before in his life, never thought possible. If Ser Arthur spun his blade into an intricate weave of motion, the Kingswood Knight moved in such a way as to give the impression of having an extra pair of arms, successfully darting to and from the Kingsguard, breaking his attack pattern and forcing him to retreat or defend himself.

"Somner! You old boar! Is that you?"

"Barristan!" Lord Crakehall shouted, diverting Jaime's attention away from the duel to another of the approaching Kingsguard, making his heart stop all over again. There he was, Barristan the Bold. The hero of the War of Ninepenny Kings, he who personally brought an end to Maelys the Monstrous and all future Blackfyre rebellions. Even twenty years removed from that legendary battle, Ser Barristan was every bit the knight Jaime imagined. Tall, slender, with a commanding but not domineering presence, the streaks of grey and silver adding to his appearance rather than betraying the weakness of age.

He and Lord Crakehall smiled, laughed, and shook hands. The two of them met decades ago, lance to lance, fighting it out for the coveted title of tourney winner. Ser Barristan, naturally, won yet, there was no ill-feeling between the two men, that much was clear. For a while, it seemed as though they'd forgotten about the squires, and Jaime dared to look back to the fight until he noticed Ser Barristan walking toward him.

"These are my squires," Lord Crakehall said, waving at them. "Merrett Frey, son of Lord Walder Frey."

"S-Ser," The oaf managed to bow halfway decently. "It is an honor to meet you."

"Likewise, lad," Ser Barristan said with a smile so genuine Jaime could not help but be astounded by his sincerity at meeting a Frey. "And you are Tywin's son, Jaime, as I recall?"

"Y-Yes, Ser Barristan," Jaime bowed, cursing his tongue for being tied in the worst possible moment. "I'm honored that you remember me..."

"Had to forget when we all knew you were all to arrive today."

"O-Of course... How foolish-"

"Don't worry, lad," Ser Barristan smiled, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "I was nervous as well when I was your age and faced Ser Duncan the Tall of all people, in a tourney no less. I'm certain that in a few years, you'll be the cause of many a stammering squire and young knight as well."

Jaime, quite worried he'd say something stupid for a change, simply nodded.

"I see we've come at a most opportune moment," Lord Crakehall nodded to the ongoing battle. "Ser Arthur... Gods, I'd heard of his prowess but to see it... Gods. And the other one, is that the Kingswood Knight?"

"Just so, though he is no anointed knight. He is Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher."

"A Wicker?" Merrett Frey asked, earning a laugh from Ser Barristan.

"A Witcher, lad. In his lands, far away from either Westeros or Essos, he is a professional monster slayer. He came to the Seven Kingdoms in pursuit of a horrible beast, one who feasts on the blood of people. And no, Somner, I do not jest. We've a head to prove it."

A monster? In Westeros? There was naught to be found but bears, wolves, and perhaps lion-lizard if one despised themselves enough to drudge through the Neck. The last creatures one could call true monsters died out over a century ago. Though were Tyrion here and Jaime dearly wished he was, he would no doubt ask a thousand more questions concerning this beast. His interests always lied in the oddities of the world, Jaime's legends and tales skewed closer to men with swords in their hands and the skills to wield them.

"I-Is it true," Jaime almost cursed his tied tongue to the seven fucking hells. "Is it true he defeated the Smiling Knight, Ser Barristan?"

"He defeated near the whole Brotherhood," The Kinsguard replied, stunning Jaime a third time. "Six of the eight fell to his sword, including the Smiling Knight. Simon Toyne surrendered and is already well on his way to the Wall. Only Wenda the White Fawn is unaccounted for."

"Seven fucking hells," Lord Crakehall muttered, watching the battle with renewed interest. "With the way he moves... I can believe it. He's even giving Ser Arthur a challenge."

"He is the superior swordsman, without question."

Merrett Frey adopted a signature look of his, eyes wide, mouth agape and head slouched forward. A look that had earned him many a jest, this time, Jaime could not fault him for it, his own expression must have been equally ridiculous.

"Come off it Barristan. Aye, I can tell he's good but better than Ser Arthur? Or you? Or the White Bull?"

"You know me, Somner, I would not say such a thing were it not true. For the past seven days, the Witcher has resided in the Red Keep and spent half that time sparring with us from dawn to midday. He has defeated every single one of us, several times over, in single combat. He's faster than Ser Lewyn, stronger than Ser Oswell, his bladework is superior to mine or Arthur's. Were someone to proclaim him the finest warrior in the realm, I'd not dispute it."

Jaime turned away from the legendary hero, etiquette be damned, and looked back to the battle. It could not be true, some foreigner calling himself by some strange name better than the Sword of the Morning? Or the Bold? It was absurd, it was impossible...

"I see your squires share your doubt," Ser Barristan said with a smile. "Pay close attention to what is happening, lads, and you'll see the truth."

Jaime did so, scrutinizing everything to the best of his ability. Even as the maddening twists and twirls of their blades made his head spin. He did not see it at first, thinking the two were merely caught in a stalemate of sorts. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Though Ser Arthur fought valiantly, the tells of his defeat were there. His bladework became slower, his footwork sloppy, his black hair was drenched with sweat, and his mouth parted to breathe. The Witcher was the opposite. There was no sign of fatigue or exertion from him, every move was a fast, deadly, and precise as the one preceding it. He neither panted nor was drenched in sweat, his scarred face as immovable as fathers.

The end came soon after. Ser Arthur, attempting a complex feint, tried to mask his thrust with a swing. The Witcher saw it coming and dodged... In a way, Jaime had never seen before. Spinning out of the way, the Witcher held his blade over his head and performed a pirouette. For an instant, he seemed to almost float in-mid air, his body spinning on and on without end. Mid-spin, his struck Ser Arthur's back with the fuller of his sword, sending the Sword of the Morning tumbling down... All before his feet even touched the ground.

"Gods be good..." Merrett Frey muttered, and for once, Jaime agreed with him.

"As I said, the far superior swordsman. Thankfully, we've forbidden anyone from using anything but blunted weapons and heavy training equipment against Geralt."

"Forbidden?" Lord Crakehall asked with worry in his voice.

"Aye, he'd be too dangerous elsewise. Last time they used live steel, Ser Lewyn's armor was left in tatters."

Numbly, Jaime followed Ser Barristan along with Lord Carekhall and Merret Frey to the two men. Ser Arthur, as expected of him, took his defeat with grace, smiling, and accepted the Witcher's hand up. The two left the arena, leaving their blunted weapons at a nearby stand, no doubt discussing one another's methods to battle. Merrett quickened his pace to arrive first, only succeeding it halting first when the Witcher's eyes fell upon him. These were no ordinary eyes, not even the purple found among the blood of old Valyria or House Dayne. Snake eyes who's yellow color only became more chilling when accompanied by his pale skin and scars.

"My lords," Ser Arthur said, bowing to all three while offering his hand to Lord Crakehall. "It gladdens my heart to see you here, I apologize for not being present to greet you alongside Ser Barristan."

"No offense is taken, Ser Arthur," Lord Crakehall smiled. "I believe all of us here know how quickly time passes when one focuses so intently on the sword."

"Aye, and with Geralt about, one must focus or lose even more quickly."

"I'm sure one of these days the roles will reverse," The Kingswood Knight said, his voice hoarse and accent, unlike any Jaime had heard before. Lord Crakehall shook his hand as well. "Geralt of Rivia, Witcher, though I'm sure Ser Barristan told you all of this already."

"That he has, I am Somner Crakehall, Lord of House Crakehall."

"From the westerlands, your coat of arms is of a brindled, white boar on a brownfield. _None So Fierce_ are your Houses words."

"Aye..." Lord Crakehall spoke, his wariness of the Witcher overcome by surprise. Perhaps even a hint of approval. "You are well informed,..?"

"Just Geralt is fine, though Master Witcher works too if you're one for formality."

"On the contrary, my wife ever complains to my lack of it," Lord Crakehall laughed. "These are my squires, Merrett of House Frey and Jaime of House Lannister."

"Greetings to you as well, my lords."

"G-Greetings, Master Wi-Witcher..." Jaime and Merrett replied, the former almost gulping under the strangers snake-like gaze.

"Yes, the resemblance between you and Lord Tywin is strong indeed."

"You know my father?" Jaime asked, almost striking himself across the face for his foolishness. The man had been in the Red Keep for a week. Of course, he'd know the Hand of the King!

"Lord Tywin has been Geralt's host since he arrived," Ser Arthur answered, causing Jaime to go numb all-over again. "Ah, my manners remain poor, welcome lads, to the Red Keep! Are you well-rested? Hungry? Thirsty?"

"Thirsty for battle, I would say," Ser Barritan answered for them with a knowing grin. "With Lord Crakehall's permission, we can begin your training right now if you'd like."

Father riding the Black Dread reborn could not stop Jaime from accepting such an offer. Yet a stone appeared in his throat when a messenger approached them. Already, he feared something had changed again. Perhaps the Lord Hand wished to see his son immediately after all? It disappeared as quickly as it came when the message was only for the Witcher who stepped away to receive it. When he returned, there was uncertainty in his face.

"It seems the Grand Maester and I won't be exchanging information today. Some business with the Citadel will otherwise take up his afternoon."

"That may work in our favor," Ser Arthur. "I am quite a bit spent after our match. If you've nothing else to do, Geralt, could you aid Ser Barristan with the squires? I'm certain there is much they could learn from you. You've some experience as an instructor, as I recall you mentioning."

"For my daughter, yes," The Rivian confirmed, taking a moment to consider it, not that Jaime could understand his hesitation. To instruct a Lord Paramount's son, even for but an hour, was an honor no warrior would refuse. Particularly with Father's reputation. "Very well, my work is not so urgent that I can't help two aspiring knights along in their journey."

Again, Jaime wondered what work this man could have, was there another creature like the one which brought him to Westeros? He still doubted its existence... And yet, if there was, there could be some glory to be found there. Simply by the way this stranger moved and fought, his prey would have to be fearsome indeed. In fact, fighting against this Geralt of Rivia and proving his worth against him alone could be enough by itself for Jaime to earn his knighthood. Boys of his age had defeated great warriors thought unbeatable before. One of them was a man grown right next to him.

"Teach these lads how to fight half as well as you and they'll not aspire to knighthood for long," Lord Crakehall chortled, the Witcher only smiled faintly.

"I'll certainly try my best."

"If I may," Jaime said, stepping forward. "I would ask Master Geralt the honor of fighting me first."

"What a coincidence," The Witcher smiled wider, for a moment, Jaime's confidence wavered. "I was going to suggest that myself."


	10. Chapter 10

"Enter," Geralt said from the desk, pretending he hadn't heard guard on the way down to his chambers. He only turned to look at the Red Cloak who's face was marred by some pox as a child, leaving him with many noticeable scars into adulthood, when he opened the door. "Yes?"

"Master Witcher," He bowed, accompanied by the noise of his armor clanking. "Lord Tywin has requested your presence in his solar."

Geralt could guess why. "Understood, please inform the Lord Hand I'll be up shortly."

The marred guard bowed again, closing the door on his way out. Judging by the sound of his labored breathing and slowing pace, the man would take his time returning to Tywin on his two-story trek. It meant Geralt would have enough time to complete the final chapter of _**Madness in Blood, the Fall of House Lohston**_ by Maester Barker. One of several books given to him by Grand Maester Pycelle, many of which about the dark history of Harrenhal castle. This particular tome made as recently as but ten years prior, told the story of the second-to-last House to rule Harrenal.

Like all of their predecessors, including House Hoare, whose methods for constructing the monstrosity were far from bloodless, another's tragedy laid the foundation for House Lohston's. House Strong was annihilated in the Dance of the Dragons, the brutal Targaryen civil war, and possibly the worst conflict seen in these lands in centuries. The first Lord of Harrenhal to come from House Lohston was Lucas Lohston, a master-of-arms for the Red Keep elevated to high nobility through his marriage to Falena Stokeworth. He even became Hand of the King until he, his lady wife, and daughter were sent away from the Red Keep at Aegon the Unworthy's command.

The Lohston's ties to the dragon kings were far from over. Lord Lohston's wife and daughter became mistresses' to the fourth Aegon. His descendent earned himself an ill reputation as a traitor, siding against House Targaryen in-favor of House Blackfyre during the First Blackfyre Rebellion only to switch sides again when the tide began to turn. Then came the last, most despised of the Lohston's: Mad Danelle. Known as a practitioner of blood magic and cannibalism, the lady spent her last years of life killing countless innocents in her dark pursuits, bathing in their blood, and indulging in perverse rituals combining magic, human misery, and sex.

For the cause of this madness, the tale tells not. Understanding a monster was frequently more difficult and unpleasant for people than putting a sword through it. And to swords, it inevitably came down to. King Maekar Targaryen took action against the mad lady, assembling a sizable force to bring her to justice. Ser Walter Whent, now Lord Whent and ruler of Harrenhal, played a pivotal role in Danelle's downfall. Before they were lords, House Whent was a small noble family, offering knights to the Lohston's. It was their familiarity with Harrenhal, which allowed them to open the gates and turn what could have been a long, drawn-out disaster into a swift victory. Maekar himself cut off Danelle's head, burned her remains to ash, and cast them into the wind from atop the highest tower of Harrenhal.

So fell House Lohston, so rose House Whent. The misfortune of one elevating another. The actual foundation of Harrenhal, not stone, steel, sweat, or blood. Geralt was convinced the place was cursed by House Harroway, everything after only reinforced the idea. Every House appointed by the Targaryens to rule the castle was inevitably destroyed by them. At least one representative of each was known to have been involved sexually with someone in the royal family. Several of them rose high in the ruling governments of their time, ascending to the position of Hand of the King.

Too many repeating occurrences to simply wave aside as coincidences. Places of great human suffering, pain, and death eventually gained a sort of aura about them. Drawing more of each to the spot years down the line, perpetuating them ad infinitum. What Harren the Black purportedly did to simply build the place alone would've been enough to attract to stir trouble years down the line. Yet on a world where the power was diminished, the end result of such issues wouldn't necessarily be magical in nature, unless the starting point itself was magic. Such as thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children being burned alive by a massive dragon oozing with the power even centuries after his death.

As Geralt stepped away from the desk, dressing for the next insufferable evening with Aerys, he recalled Ser Oswell's story after their sparring match.

"Harrenhal is home to strange sights and sounds, Master Witcher," The Kingsguard said, running a cloth along his sword at the table they sat at. "The flapping of unseen birds at the mews, the patter of footfalls from someplace down its many long hallways belonging to no one, lone torches lit in halls and rooms none reside in. Strange to be sure yet as my father says, naught that can't be explained."

Yet even as he spoke those words, the grave stare he gave to his sword showed he was unconvinced of them.

"What cannot be explained by tricks of the mind or children playing at ghosts to frighten others with is... Something I witnessed as a lad of but seven years of age, a frightening experience which robbed me of sleep for many moons thereafter. I was returning from my lessons with the Maester, bored of quills and lectures, and eager for the practice sword. I cannot say when or how I lost my way, I'd gone down the endless steps countless times. On that day, however, my memory and wits failed me.

"I pressed onward, unafraid... For a time. I was to be a knight, and knights were not afeared of anything, certainly not losing themselves inside their own home. I kept telling myself this, too young and stupid to know better. Soon enough, I began noticing drops of water in my path, in places without holes in the roof, and where no rain had fallen for weeks. I paid it no mind, even playing a game of avoiding the puddles which grew with every new one... Until a thirst took me. I thought to drink from the water, to my regret.

"There, in the crystal clear puddle, as I knelt, my heart plummeted to oblivion, and icy fear froze my blood. In the water, there was the flame, and amongst the fire stood a man. He seemed a knight, though his coat of arms was impossible to say for his armor was black. His wet hair stock to his charred skin and where a man has eyes, he had naught save empty holes. He... Tried to speak but his tongue... It was melted... After that-"

"After that, you made another puddle when you pissed yourself," Ser Lewyn said at the time, wearing a new suit of armor and laughing.

"Others take you, brother," Ser Whent sounded aggrieved only for a moment before laughing with him. Perhaps Leywn did not notice or care to comment, but to Geralt's ears, the laughter seemed forced. When asked about his birth date a bit later that day, Ser Oswell said it was 245 years after the Conquest. The incident occurred the same year as the 250th anniversary of Aegon torching Harrenhal to a smoldering ruin. The event gained no great attention amongst the Whent family, why should it? It was nothing but the wild imagination of a boy.

Did the Lady Danelle suffer a similar trauma? Further examination revealed she'd been born around the 200th anniversary. Yet, the signs of madness were not apparent until much later in life. Who could say, magic and madness could be and frequently were mutually exclusive. In this case, the Witcher doubted very much that they were. Putting the matter from his thoughts for the day, Geralt checked himself in the mirror close to the garderobe then checked if another lackey of Varys' was spying on him from the rung ladder. None that he could hear, this time.

Nor did he hear any on his way up to Tywin's quarters atop the tower. Geralt found him, unsurprisingly, deep amidst official paperwork, two stacks of which stuck out quite prominently to his left side. To his right was a cask of ale with two cups. One of which was already placed at guests' end of the table for his convenience.

"Lord Hand," Geralt said, bowing his head, eyes straining with the setting sun shining into his face. "You wished to see me?"

"Of course, be seated Geralt, we will begin our business shortly," A few more papers required his attention and the Witcher was glad for them. His considerable stack proved the perfect means of blocking the sun's rays once he sat down.

"My apologies for interrupting, but would you mind if I began my newly acquired drinking habit earlier this evening?" Geralt inquired, nodding at the cask.

"Help yourself."

He did so and found the taste of the Arbor wine as delightful as ever. The scent alone was enough to calm Geralt even in Aerys' presence, and in the time it required for Tywin to end his duties, he closed his eyes and basked in its sweet taste.

"Mm, I'll have to take some of that with me when I return home."

"And when may this be?"

"Difficult to say," Geralt answered truthfully, putting the cup down. "It depends on a great many factors. Why do you ask, Lord Tywin? Is there some reason I should hurry along?"

"Quite the opposite in fact," He placed a final stamp bearing the kings seal onto the paper, setting it aside atop the stack. "I understand your usual meeting with Pycelle did not come to pass today."

"Indeed, it seems some urgent matter required his immediate attention. Leaving me free to spend the afternoon reading about destroyed Houses and train with your son, Jaime. Judging by your absence at his arrival, and by the paperwork mountain on your desk, I would say you weren't able to greet him until not too long ago yourself."

"A most interesting series of events which you no doubt pieced together within minutes," Tywin said, leaning back into his seat. "Let us speak plainly then, Master Witcher, what do you think of him?"

"Truthfully? His skill with the sword is considerable," Geralt answered and meant it. Though still a boy, possibly no older than fifteen or sixteen, Jaime Lannister fought better than most men Geralt had crossed swords with, men twice his age and some even thrice his experience. Ser Barristan chose the Frey boy, citing a brother or cousin of his who impressed him at some tourney as an example of a fine Frey knight. Geralt and Jaime went after, using blunt weapons even as the Witcher saw a frown of distaste cross the boys face at this fact.

The rules were a revised version of what Geralt and Ser Arthur used, the first to fall five times was the loser. The boy didn't use a shield, opting to use a single longsword. Not out of arrogance, the Witcher saw, but of simple preference, he wasn't the type for trying to withstand his opponent. This one preferred the dance of blades. This is precisely what it turned into moments after Ser Barristan told them to begin. Jaime wasted not a moment trying to score a blow, his blunted sword whirling in his hand into a thrust.

Geralt smacked it aside and counter-attacked with a swing, the squire saw it coming and deftly twisted his head to the opposite side, wrist already angling his sword for another attack. Geralt avoided this as well, spinning his blade into an intentionally quick series of circles and semi-circles to confuse him. Jaime responded well, however. His sword met Geralt's time and again, even if the Witcher was holding back considerably. On and on this went during their first bout, the young lion using the seemingly boundless energy of youth against the Witcher, severely holding back to test his capabilities. There was another reason for his offensive dervish, fear.

Though the boy tried to hide it through a mask of concentration and exertion, Geralt's purposefully unblinking, emotionless stare seemed to hold him back.

"What's wrong?" He asked, boring his viper-eyes into the squire's green ones, his sword deflecting a swing. "Does this look frighten you?"

"N-No!"

"I should hope so, never let your enemies face make you scared, lax, or fooled. Your body must be ready to move, to defend, to kill, at the mere instinctual presence of danger."

To hammer the point home, Geralt kept fighting him this way well into the fifth bout after Jaime had fallen four times beforehand. By then, the boy seemed to catch on, afeared still but fighting it back, drawing strength from the defiant counter glare he offered the Witcher. His stamina remained impressive throughout, despite the countless strikes they'd sent against one another, Jaime in the last round was barely any slower or sloppier than the one from the first.

It was during this final exchange that Geralt decided to test his personality in other ways. Feigning weakness, the Witcher allowed himself to get pushed back and back, intentionally missing strikes and even letting the boy's sword bruise him on the right shoulder. The change in demeanor was swift and troubling, the focus he'd acquired when fighting a superior shifted into arrogance. He couldn't help but smile cockily, his head no doubts imagining a million fantasies of gloriously defeating the man who'd bested the entire Kingsguard.

Geralt put a stop to it quickly, the shift in the balance of power occurring so swiftly Jaime's mouth would've gone agape if the Witcher gave him enough time for such a luxury. With the same speed he'd used to defeat Ser Arthur, Geralt unleashed a veritable storm of thrusts, swings, counter attacks, ripostes, and even a pirouette or two. To the boy's swordsmanship credit, Jaime withstood the barrage for a while longer than expected, letting his body instinctually move and react when his mind could barely comprehend anything.

When his back hit the ground for the fifth time, Geralt offered him a hand up. The squire's response was to begrudgingly take it, even as the Witcher could already hear his teeth grind. If it was just the two of them, his reaction would've been far less respectful, Geralt had seen enough from Ciri to gauge petulance in a child from a glance. Acting like a scorned little boy in front of his two heroes kept him in check, to a point.

"You acquitted yourself well, young Lannister," Geralt said, meaning every word even as the squire before him didn't know whether to take comfort or offense from them. "But a fight isn't won until your enemy is defeated or dead. Out there, your arrogance will cost you dearly."

"Y-Yes, Master Witcher," He responded with a forced tone of respect, bowing his head. "Thank you for the lessons."

After that, he and Ser Barristan went several more rounds. Geralt did not participate in anymore. He stayed on the sidelines to observe how the boy thought and acted with one of his heroes. As before, his swordwork was impeccable, the rest...

"He won his first tourney melee at the age of three and ten," Lord Tywin explained, not smiling but with a hint of pride in his eyes. "At my behest, the Kingsguard have offered to continue his training, to finish what Lord Crakehall has begun."

"He'll go far, I would even dare say that in a few years, he will be a match for the likes of Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur."

"Not better?"

"Perhaps," Geralt shrugged, knowing the point of this conversation was drawing close. "They've set the bar quite high. Your son most definitely has the potential to realize it, he fights with a natural talent many would envy."

"I am aware of this, and I would see this potential realized."

"And who better to do it than the man who's already far and away superior to the current Kingsguard crop?"

This time, the Lord Hand almost smiled. "Quite so, and as you've told us the other evening, you have experience as a sword instructor."

"That I do," Geralt nodded, with pride in his voice as well. "My daughter Ciri is, without question, one of the best fighters there or even here. Though I don't take full credit for it, several of my Witcher brothers and instructor helped make her what she is."

"Then let us arrive at the heart of the matter at all, I offer you a great opportunity, Geralt, a chance to tutor not only the son of a Great House of Westeros. But an heir to one. It is a matter most important, and one I would not trust anyone so lightly. Jaime is the future of House Lannister, our name, our reputation, our power... it all rests on his shoulders, and I will see that all three continue well after I am naught but dust and bone."

"The legacy of House Lannister must remain strong, by any means necessary," Geralt continued, omitting the word supremacy.

"Precisely, and you are just such a man to help see it become a reality. I have already taken the necessary steps to ensure the means of performing such exercises and will compensate you for your efforts most generously. Aerys cannot know of this. And so, you will train in secret, within the Tower of the Hand. There are a number of chambers and places well suited to the task. Rest assured, I will make it painfully clear to him never to reveal the existence of these lessons, and silent he will remain."

They would have to do such exercises even earlier in the morning, before their schedules, as everyone else knew them, began. Not impossible for him, Geralt had grown accustomed to doing more with less sleep.

"You will also be generously compensated for your efforts."

"Supposing I do accept this agreement, let's keep the means of my payment something to discuss for later. I've already got three hundred golden dragons in my chambers and nothing to spend them on."

Aerys, appreciable for a change, rewarded Geralt for the Brotherhood's destruction. Though an official bounty had not been issued for them, three hundred golden coins seemed quite a fair sum. In truth, it was more than fair. Geralt never left the Red keep and thus spent not a single one of them. Tywin accepted this with a nod, even as his eyes grew suspicious at the word "Supposing."

"In truth, Lord Hand, I wonder how much I can even do for your son."

"Explain."

"Firstly," Geralt leaned forward, filling his cup again. "The training of a Witcher requires a wide assortment of specific equipment you can only find at Kaer Morhen, far, far away from here. I speak of large training machines that would be impossible to transport, place, and use someplace discretely. You'd have to put them atop one of the Red Keep's battlements. I'm also no builder, I can't give you the specifics of their construction no matter how much money you offer me.

"Second," Geralt took a swing of the wine. "The fighting style of a Witcher is ill-suited to the kind of warrior your son will be. It requires speed and space to maneuver. Jaime will be fighting in heavier armor, surrounded by hundreds or thousands of others just like him in the piss and shit covered fields and city walls. Places where a man is just as likely to fall to an enemy sword as he is to his own comrades crushing him to death.

"Lastly," Geralt placed the cup down, looking Tywin in the eye. "When I trained my daughter, she was much younger and had no prior experience. She was moldable into whatever kind of warrior one could want her to be. Your son isn't. He's been squiring for years and has ingrained fighting techniques. To start teaching him in something quite different would confuse and set him back. I can, of course, teach him about footwork, help him fight well with his other hand, let him incorporate some Witcher techniques applicable to his style. Make no mistake, though, Lord Tywin, Jaime can't ever fight like me."

The head of House Lannister did not respond, he didn't even grip his armchairs. Instead, he looked... Conflicted, the same expression his son wore the day before. Furious at the seeming refusal Geralt was giving him and perhaps even impressed by the way he was doing it? Tywin had no doubt spent many, many years of his life amongst idiots, men whose reasons for failing were laziness or incompetence. He couldn't number Geralt among them, not with the rational reasons provided for it.

After the way he reminded the Witcher of Emhyr, with all his talk of a child being first and foremost the means of securing some legacy, Geralt enjoyed watching him squirm a bit. But, Lord Tywin was also the closest thing he had to a true, powerful ally save Pycelle. And besides, he pitied the boy more than he may dislike the father.

"And yet," Geralt said, in a more placating tone of voice. "I suspect your son doesn't have to be close to my way of fighting to realize his potential. His larger problems are up here," He tapped the side of his head. "May I speak plainly?"

"You've found no compulsion to do otherwise so far, why stop now?"

"Your son needs to get his head out of his ass. He's gifted with the sword, and his training thus far has brought it out spectacularly. He knows this all too well. The instant I feigned losing my strength and gave ground, your son foolishly walked into my trap. The smirk on his face said it all: I'm about to achieve incredible glory! It doesn't matter how little sense my act made, his head was in the clouds, and I threw him down easier that time than all the previous ones.

"Ser Barristan later performed the same trick on him later and, the boy fell for it again, though he had enough courtesy to bob his head up and down in understanding more convincingly there. But he doesn't understand, not really. The world may let you suffer your flights of fancy in a training yard, but out there? Not a chance. He'll do or say something stupid and lose his head for it."

Again, Geralt's speech was met with silence by Lord Tywin, though he appeared far less conflicted than before. There was some fury there, doubtlessly he misliked anyone speaking so brazenly ill of his golden air. And yet, there was something else too... A look of respect?

"An astute examination, Master Witcher," He replied, slowly. "Yes, I am aware of my sons... Tendency towards foolishness. Even as a boy, he and his sister both would perform dangerous stunts simply to show they could."

"Fearlessness, talent and arrogance, a dangerous combination but not an unfixable one. There is something I can share with your son to help him overcome this, something besides fighting better with a sword."

"Which is?"

"My experience," Geralt said, knowing this would work and be far, far kinder to the boy than whatever else the world may use to correct this mistake for him. Because the Witcher himself had experienced how quickly life can shatter your wildest dreams. He had been a boy gifted with the sword, all too aware of it, and dogmatically convinced he could fix everything wrong by swinging it about.


	11. Chapter 11

Jaime barely slept that night, his thoughts as restless as a caged lion's with fresh meat just behind steel bars. His first day at Kings Landing was all he'd hoped it to be... And more, or perhaps less? He could not decide yet. He'd met the Sword of the Morning, Barristan the Bold, his heroes since he was but a boy, trained with them, found himself on the receiving end of their remarkable swordsmanship. Every bruise, every defeat from them? It was a reward, a badge of honor. Jaime could not hate them for it, they were the best of the best, but to stalemate them in a single duel was already more than he could ever hope to do.

And then there was the Witcher. A stranger with those frightening eyes, who's technique was unlike any Jaime had ever seen before. It was fast yet powerful, staunch, and reliable, a blur of motion closer to dance. No one had ever pushed him to such a point before, leaving his body drenched, his arms sore, and his pride more than a little bruised. For every moment he enjoyed it, there was another he loathed fiercely. This man, no knight, of no noble birth whatsoever, was besting him. Besting the likes of Ser Barristan, Ser Arthur, Ser Gerold, and the entire rest of the Kingsguard. It could not be so, Jaime simply could not accept this.

It had to be because of his unorthodox fighting technique. Doubtlessly it gave him an advantage rooted in a knights unfamiliarity with it. Once this was taken away, his superiority would disappear with it. Jaime tirelessly spent the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, attempting to unlock the secrets to this fighting form. He was so distracted, Cersei became cross with him, and though he apologized, it was only done half-heartedly. Then Father invited him to his solar, and Jaime's musings were replaced by a predatory excitement.

"Master Geralt and I have come to an agreement, henceforth, until such time as your training is deemed complete by him, you will train together. Here, within the Tower of the Hand, in chambers, I've already emptied for your convenience. I brought you here to hone your skills, to learn from the best, and Geralt numbers among them. You will do as he tells you, follow every command from him as though it came from me. All but this one order which I shall pass onto you now: absolute discretion is mandatory. None can know of this arrangement for reasons of court intrigue save for us three, not even your sister. If it even momentarily appears this secrecy has been undermined, I will personally send you back to the westerlands and ensure you never see a single tourney for the next five years. At least."

The instant the rooster crowed, Jaime all but flew out of his bed. He freshened up with a splash of cold water left for him the night before, filled the pissing bowl near to the top, dressed then rushed from his chambers. The daunting length of the Tower of the Hand seemed to vanish during his descent, the stationed guards and winding steps disappearing in a blur. The chamber Father had cleared for them was a dining room, capable of seating thirty guests. The tables had been dismantled or moved, and the benches bushed to the far corners of the room. On the opposite side, sitting on steps leading to an outside balcony was the Witcher.

Clad in the same attire as from the day before, the Rivian paid no heed to him, almost lazily reading some tome Jaime did not recognize. His bandolier and twin blades were to his immediate left, while a pair of blunted swords laid to his right. Not accustomed to people not greeting him when he entered someplace, Jaime felt irritated as the foreigner continued to ignore him even as his steps were deliberately quite loud. Halfway across the small hall, the Witcher's eye met Jaime's, and once again, the heir of House Lannister momentarily struggled to meet them. But only for just that instant.

"Good morning," Jaime said first as the silence stretched out, even giving the Rivian a courtesy bow of his head.

"To you as well, Jaime," The Witcher replied in that hoarse, grating voice of his, remaining seated. With far more effort than one of his proven physicality required, he eventually got to his feet and leisurely strolled to the nearest bench.

Ignoring the pang of irritation at his failure to address a Lord's heir properly, Jaime eyed his two swords with interest. From what Ser Barristan said, they were capable of carving through even the armor of a Kingsguard. Could they be Valyrian Steel? Or perhaps the same meteor substance Dawn was forged from? Or something else entirely. To try such a blade would be most interesting indeed. Perhaps, Father could even buy one from him...?

"Don't even think about it," The Witcher said without turning around, breaking Jaime's reverie. "The only one way you're touching either of those swords is with my permission or from my corpse."

The latter could be arranged if his insolence continued. "Not gold? My Lord Father could pay you handsomely for them. A Lannister-"

"Always pays his debts, I know," He walked back. "And no amount of gold he or anyone else from the Seven Kingdoms and beyond could match their worth. A Witcher's swords are his life. I'd no sooner part with mine than Ser Arthur would sell Dawn."

"You speak as though their worth is remotely comparable."

"One of them was capable of withstanding several direct blows from Dawn without a scratch," The Rivian said as casually as one may comment on the sky. "Blows meant to kill, might I add."

While Jaime stared, dumbstruck by this revelation, the Witcher walked past his swords and took hold of the blunted steel. Jaime caught it enough, his irritation growing at the thought of using lesser practice equipment when he'd already fought in actual combat with live steel. A fact his Father most definitely would have told the Witcher. Still, this Geralt of Rivia's word was law while they trained and so he said nothing.

"Three days," He spoke, twisting the sword about with circular, smooth motions of his wrist and fingers. "Through the next three days, we will perform a preliminary test of sorts. To see if you've got what it takes to succeed the training I've got in mind for you. If you do so, then I will share some of the secrets to the Witcher arts. If you don't, our business is ended. And yes, your Father is aware of this. Don't go crying to him in the event of failure."

"I don't cry," Jaime replied, clutching his pommel tightly. "But my enemies do when I've bested them!"

Without care for chivalry, Jaime thrust his sword in a feint, switching quickly into a swing meant to strike the insolent cur across the face. The Witcher did not immediately move, standing like a statue. In a quick motion, the foreigner tossed his sword from the right hand to the left and blocked the swing. Jaime, undeterred, swung again and again, in a quick succession of blows and counter blows. Firstly with one hand, and then two, each one with all the force behind it he could muster. Men twice his age and size would've already been overwhelmed, fallen on their arses by the third or fourth. The Witcher did not number among them. His blocks but with one hand were more than enough to render Jaime's two-handed swings useless. His evades were impossibly quick, nimble beyond description.

Even as Jaime circled about him, the Witcher only shifted position to keep the two remained facing one another. His look was severe, and his face chiseled from stone. It only made his frustration worse, the inability to crack defense, or infallible facade. It was unlike anything he'd faced before. Even more so than what he'd done yesterday. Jaime felt no honor or gratification from fighting like this, losing this way, only fury.

Eventually, amidst this rush of this one-sided battle, the Witcher smirked, doing something no sane warrior would ever do, he tossed his sword aside. Jaime would have shouted, had the Witcher not almost leisurely side-stepped his thrust. The Young Lion barely kept his balance thanks to years of practice, it did not make his failing about any less humiliating.

"You!" He spun around, pointing his sword at the Witcher. "What game are you playing? Pick up your sword!"

"Why should I? It's painfully clear to me I don't need it, not against someone like you."

"I care not what you need, I'll not fight an unarmed man. Even an arrogant one such as you. Now, pick it up and fight me properly!"

The Rivian stood there, eyes squinting imperceptibly. Then, with the only show of proper respect so far, nodded, kicking the practice sword into the air and snatching it. A neat trick, Jaime thought before attacking again. They played at this mummers farce for a while longer until even Jaime's rage could not compensate for weariness. He'd failed to realize how much time has passed. A momentary pause let the ache of his arms, and stickiness of drenched hair settle in. Outside, the sun's shine grew with each passing moment, the previous night all but vanished.

"That's enough for today," The Witcher said, turning his back to him and putting the practice sword down. "Get some rest, you'll need it for your training with the Kingsguard."

"W-What?!" Jaime stared, incredulous as the Rivian slung the bandolier across his chest. "We've done nothing!"

"On the contrary, I've learned much today. Keep a cooler head going forward, and you might do the same. See you tomorrow."

With that dismissal, the Witcher left the hall and Jaime alone staring after him, wondering what in Seven fucking Hell he'd just participated in. He could not see reason in any of it. Was it all to test how long Jaime could fight? His patience? Self-control? Or some elaborate plot to humiliate Tywin Lannister's sun under the guise of training? To his great shame, Jaime considered going to his Lord Father a while as he trudged back to his chambers. Such an act would prove the Witcher right, that he was naught but a boy who would run to his parent when something didn't go his way. It was the last time he'd even entertain such a fool notion.

The Witcher did not participate in the days sparring matches, opting to remain by the side with the same tome he'd brought to their training. From what Ser Oswell said in a jape, it was some book detailing the history of the Night's Watch. What could he possibly want with some group of cutthroats, purse-snatchers, and other criminals of the realm exiled to the Northern wastes to the end of their days? And why was it more important than giving Jaime another chance at besting him? The thought irked him to no end, well into the morning of the next day.

It began much the same as their last training, Jaime, ready and eager to fight, the Witcher scrutinizing the same tome as though it held all the answers, ignoring the heir of House Lannister. Did he steal this from Father, who was wont to keep someone waiting under the veneer of work only to annoy them? He'd learned well if such was the case.

"You're unusually quiet today," The Rivian said, turning to the next page.

"I'm merely considering the myriad of ways I've in store to defeat you, foreigner."

"None of which will work, as you well know. Or rather, you should know, if your pride wasn't so wounded."

"Hand me a sword, and we'll see how right you are."

Jaime could not help but fume when he chose for more blunted steel. If it was a proper weapon, the results would be quite different. He knew this to be true.

"Ready?"

"Yes-" A moment later, the Witcher struck. Jaime was so surprised it was only his honed fighting instincts that prevented a blow to the stomach. He tried to riposte the thrust only for the Rivian to perform one of those spinning motions of his, completely changing the course of his next action. The blur he'd encountered during their first match returned with a vengeance, his attacks ceaseless, swift, powerful. Jaime's pitiful attempts at a counter strike worked to his advantage as well, the Witcher seemed to let the blow carry him on, to reposition himself into even deadlier strike than before.

Jaime's perpetual retreat, his faltering defense, brought him to the edge of the hall where the benches were pushed aside. On the nearest one was the Witcher's tome. For an instant, it crossed his mind to grab it, perhaps use it as a weapon or a shield to deter his opponent. The act may even give him a chance to score a hit of his own. But it would not matter. It would be a blow earned through trickery and surprise, not from true skill of the blade. And so Jaime threw the notion aside, grit his teeth and weathered the storm of sword strikes until his arms ached, his chest was on fire, and his knees quivered.

"You should've gone for my book," The Witcher said, walking back to his bandolier at the terrace steps. "Using it to deter me from attacking, even for an instant, would've given you a chance to turn things around."

"... You'd have me resort to trickery?" Jaime panted out, struggling to stay up. "Never... Either I best my enemy with the sword alone or-"

"Or you'll die," He wrapped the bandolier around himself, looking at Jaime as he walked to tome. "Chivalry, fairness, even in a knights tourney, these things aren't absolute. Much less out there in the real world where a desperate enough man will try to slit your throat for your boots. While you sleep."

"The knights of the Kingsguard wouldn't-"

"They most certainly would, they're good men, in many ways honorable men, but they're not stupid. They can and have used trickery and other less than chivalrous methods to win a fight... Or cope with their everyday lives," The Witcher's took the tome under his arm. "If you don't believe me, ask them out in the sparring yard."

Just to spite the bastard, Jaime silently vowed to do precisely this and prove him wrong when next they met. Fortunately, his tutors for the day were Sers Leywn and Ser Barristan. Men who fought against the last Blackfyre pretenders in their youth, attaining knighthood and membership into the Kingsguard for it, respectively. If any could prove the falsehood of the Witcher's lies, it would be them. Instead of receiving vindication, Jaime only found surprise and disappointment.

"The songs and books have no doubt sung my praises aplenty," Ser Barristan said, smiling as though it were no great matter at all. "Aye, I did fight my way to Maelys, even as dozens of other men fell to his sword, and dozens more fled away from it. Soon enough, it was just the two of us, given a wide berth as though a sparring ring was around. It began as the tales say, two men crossing swords, each waiting for the moment to strike, to win. Until the mad dog rushed me, once I'd disarmed him, pushing me into the dirt. After that, there was little gallantry. We'd spent near enough time punching, clawing, trying to choke one another out as we did sword fighting. It was only at the very end when we'd somehow reclaimed our weapons in the mire and dirt that I ran the Monstrous through. It's a blessing most of my teeth were left by the end of it."

"At least your victory was in single combat," Ser Leywn snorted, showing even more mirth even as Jaime silently despaired. "I was knighted for rushing the enemy line, holding fast even as my comrades fell or ran off. Crap, all of it. My horse panicked and threw me from the saddle over the pike well, it was only the fear of death, battle madness, and grabbing some Tyroshi sellsword as a meatshield that saw me live long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Any other man would've been speared through or broken every bone."

The rest of the afternoon continued to be a miserable one. Jaime's thoughts were far from the sparring ring, imagining Ser Lewyn flung from his horse, Ser Barristan beating a man in the dirt and mud like some smallfolk tavern brawler. It would be amusing if it wasn't a knife twisting in his heart. His performance suffered, his hand was slow and clumsy, his footwork appalling. For the first time since he'd begun training properly, Lord Crakehall found him lacking while Merrett Frey came out the better of the two. How dearly he wished for the Witcher to be there, to challenge him before one and all, proper steel in hand and best the prick. He chose that day to forego the sparring yard entirely, spending it with Grand Maester Pycelle or in his chambers.

Jaime did not unleash his fury on anyone. He accepted Lord Carkehall's criticisms, the Kingsguard's advice, the Frey's japes, Father's silent looks, and Cersei's growing disdain for the distance between them. All would be well once the Witcher's arse was knocked upon a stone floor. He did not rush from his chambers, or down the steps, no, Jaime saved every ounce of strength in his body for their final sparring match. The Witcher had no tome with his this time, nor did he wear the metal-studded leather jacket. Instead, he wore a simple, white short with folded sleeves. Revealing the end of a scar on his chest, and one on his right forearm, and a strange wolf-headed medallion dangling from his neck.

Jaime met his eyes unflinchingly, right-hand opening, and closing. So focused was he on letting the viper-eyed bastard know he was not intimidated that he neglected to notice the absence of blunted practice swords. The only blades in the room, near as he could tell, were in the scabbards carried by The Witcher.

"I believe you wanted to try one of these?" He inquired, unsheathing the blade and tossing it to Jaime in one smooth motion. What immediately took him by surprise was the weight of it, more precisely the weightlessness. Despite being around fifty inches from the pommel bottom to the tip, the blade was lighter than castle-forged steel. Its grip, made for either one or two hands with a steel ring dividing the handle, fit perfectly into his palm.

"Go ahead, try it out." The Rivian said, Jaime idly nodded and began to move the blade about, checking its balance, performing rudimentary wrist spins and swings to get his bearings. The sword seemed to almost shimmer as it cut and glided through the air.

"These words, what do they mean?" Jaime asked, trying to make sense of them to no avail.

"They're runes, Dwarven runes, and no, I'm not making a joke about your brother," He unsheathed the other blade, of comparable length to the first though with some differences. The crossguard was straight, not curved, a series of indentations were built along each side, running almost the full length of it. The wolf symbol built into the bottom of the pommel was carved into a ring, while Jaime's had a replica of the Witcher's medallion.

"Where I come from, runes can turn even an ordinary sword into something much more dangerous. The one you're holding is the blade I tested against Dawn. This one I used to cut the Smiling Knight almost in two."

"A pretty tale to be sure, but I've you to thank for not believing in them anymore."

"Your newfound bitterness is as stupid as it is unconvincing," The Witcher said with more bite to his voice. "I see I'll have to knock some more sense into you before you see things clearly."

"We'll see," Jaime said through grit teeth, his hand already growing accustomed to the sword. Things would be different this time, now it was live steel. Every blow could be fatal, ever mistake a death sentence. It was in such bouts that Jaime felt the most alive when his skills shined the most brightly. They had to.

The Rivian took a high stance, sword held-over-head diagonally, legs spread apart and knees bent. Jaime did the same, intending to meet and overpower him. Slowly, carefully, the two circled one another, Lannister to the left and Witcher to the right. They moved almost in unison, colliding in the very center of the hall. Jaime lost almost immediately. The force of the Witcher's strike not only overpowered his but flung the sword from the Young Lion's hands before Jaime could even perceive what happened a sword was pressed against the left side of his throat. He stared at it, blinking and shivering at the touch of steel.

"Pick it up," The Witcher said, no, commanded in a tone that brokered no disagreement or place for negotiation. Jaime moved away, resisting the urge to check his throat for any injury. Instead, he tried to stoke the fires of his anger, to ensure the next attack was stronger and faster than the last.

The Witcher switched stances again, this time into a hanging left pointed at his opponent. Jaime did not bother to wait this time, opting to strike first. The Rivian's riposte left him off balance instantaneously, stumbling like a fool again. By the time Jaime turned around for a swing, the swords fuller struck his wrist, leaving him weaponless and open to another blade press against his throat.

"Pick it up," The Witcher shoved him this time, and Jaime fell. He was too stunned by how wrong everything was going to even protest or brace himself. This wasn't meant to be, he was supposed to be doing better with live steel, not worse than ever before. "Pick it up!"

Like a stumbling Frey oaf, Jaime's hand darted across the stone floor and searched for the sword. Once it was within his grasp, some of his confidence returned. So long as there was a blade to wield, Jaime had a chance to win. This was what he kept telling himself even as the Witcher readied for the following strike. There was no stance this time. Instead, the white-haired beast hunter marched forward, spinning his sword in dazzlingly quick, circular, and half-circular motions, switching it deftly between both hands. With each passing moment, the rotations hastened, creating a dizzying endless storm of motion.

So overwhelmed was Jaime by it, his shaken resolve and everything else that'd happened, he didn't realize the tip of Geralt's sword was pressed against his throat. When, how? It was impossible to tell. It was also impossible to move, even the merest act of gulping would cause the blade to rend his flesh in two. Jaime stopped breathing, his sword handshaking incessantly even after the Witcher took his sword back. Once he walked away, the Young Lion gasped for air and slumped onto the ground, checking his throat for any sign of cuts. None could be found.

_He could have killed me..._ The realization turned his blood into ice and doused the final embers of his rage. He could have killed him any single number of times, not merely this day, but in all the others they'd fought. Even with a blunted sword, the Witcher could no doubt cave a man's head open with a single swing. Perhaps even with his bare hands...

"You're beginning to understand," Geralt's voice made Jaime involuntarily shiver. "The most painful lesson every young man must learn: your own fallibility."

Fail, at fighting? The notion was absurd, impossible to even imagine, yet... There he was. Frightened, shaken, desperately clutching his throat to search for a phantom injury. How, how could it have come to this? He asked the question endlessly, and just as ceaselessly, the answer evaded him. Was he simply not good enough? Was all his vaunted potential as a swordsman truly for naught?! As he tried to make sense of it all, he noticed the Rivian remove his shirt, casting it aside on the floor. What Jaime saw across his chest and arms were scars, countless, horrible scars. Numbering two dozen at the very least, most caused by fangs or claws from creatures he dreaded to even imagine. To suffer even a fraction of these injuries... How, how was this man even alive?!

"Some of these injuries I received when I was like you, young and inexperienced," Geralt said, his voice like steel. "But I assure you Jaime, the vast majority of them were received even when I'd become older and wiser. When I was fully committed to the fight, killing my enemy before it could kill me. And I still almost died three times the number of years you've been alive."

He tapped his chest with his sword. "Now, what do you think would've happened to me, someone who is far and away your superior, if I'd done what you do? Allowed thoughts of glory, pride, or rage to slow me down or guided my sword?"

Then he pointed the blade at Jaime, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Now, I want you to think about what will happen to you?"

The answer he'd look for came to Jaime, in all its horrible clarity. As though a sword had been run right through him.


	12. Chapter 12

"Something troubling you, Jaime?"

"... What...? Oh, n-no, Father. I'm merely thinking..."

"We should send a raven to the Citadel at once, history is in the making before our very eyes."

Jaime's quiet consideration, not brooding, ended entirely with the remark of his dear, sweet sister Cersei. Sitting in the seat to Father's left, his twin was as lovely as ever. Glinting green eyes full of amusement with her own cleverness, a smile too friendly to be authentic and glowing, golden hair intricately woven into a braid running down her right shoulder. What a pity it would be if someone were to fling a piece of venison across the table into those meticulously cared for curls. If Father wasn't present, Jaime would've done so already, were his mood merrier, he might've done other things as well. Yet Father was there, and truthfully, Jaime's interests were occupied by other matters. Such as the question...

"Droll, dear sister, very droll," Jaime smiled, attempting to look and sound his usual self. "And here I thought you'd be proud of me for sparring a thought to a given matter."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction even as the smile persisted. "Of course, I'm glad, I merely wonder if you've taken this new habit too far already. Thinking is all you seem to do as of late when you're not fighting."

When you should pay heed to me was her unspoken point.

"If Jaime wishes to consider a matter of importance carefully, he should be allowed to do so," Father said, silencing Cersei with a glance. "I encourage it, in-fact. So long as it is a matter deserving of such scrutiny?"

"It is, I'm merely... Unaccustomed to approaching matters this way."

He very deliberately avoided looking at Cersei, focusing instead on Father. Not for the first or last time that day, he'd considered asking him for advice. If there was any man in the Seven Kingdoms known and feared for his... solutions to any and all issues, it was Tywin Lannister. Try as he might, however fancifully, Jaime could not imagine receiving the aid he so wished. Cersei, as dear as she was to him, would help him even less. She would try to emulate Father, providing the same useless solution or find the question too perplexing to bother thinking much at all.

Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell were two he'd also considered asking without ever doing so. They would speak of the duty of knights, to defend their king, their liege lord, the smallfolk, their family. This was closer to the truth, to a point. If a sixth Blackfyre pretender appeared the next day, invading the Stepstones or Westeros, Jaime would go out and fight them just as Father and his brothers did. Would duty alone spur him into doing so? A pretty thought to be sure, not one he believed entirely.

"Then learn," Father said as if it was nothing at all. "Once you are Lord of Casterly Rock, every action, great or small, will require careful consideration. A sword will only ever take you so far."

Once Jaime may have silently scoffed at the idea, now? Perhaps there was more truth to it than he realized. Once their family dinner for the evening passed, Jaime returned to his quarters, angering Cersei again when she suggested some elaborate attempt to sneak out of the Red Keep.

"Be mindful dear brother," She hissed on the steps separating the top and second floors. "I'll not take kindly to this new habit of yours for long."

Jaime could not help but laugh in her face, even after she struck him and fled down the steps. He had never much feared his dear sister, finding her anger more amusing than fearsome. It was doubly so now. What were the threats of an angry sibling next to the press of cold steel against one's throat? If nothing else, Cersei helped distract him from the past few day's events. He could not help but laugh on even as he laid down into bed. Unlike the past few nights, Jaime managed to sleep decently enough. An improvement over the rage-fueled half-dreams which plagued him during his madness against Geralt.

The next morning, the Young Lion took his time arriving at the next sparring session. Partly to buy himself more time for an answer and out of fear for failing this last test. Geralt awaited him in much the same way as before, sitting at the far side of the room on the terrace steps. A new book was in his hand, something concerning the Age of Heroes. Practice blades were there again, along with a thick piece of cloth.

"Good morning," Jaime said first, bowing his head.

"To you too," Geralt returned the gesture, setting his book aside. "Looks like you slept well."

"Well enough," He awkwardly answered, trying not to shift from place to place. "I've thought about it... What you asked me yesterday before we parted... What it is that I fight for..."

"Possibly overthought too."

"... Aye... I considered asking many people for aid and yet... I don't think they would've told me anything I hadn't heard before."

"You know them well enough to make such a judgment?"

"Father and Cersei? Yes, I'm certain. Ser Gerold and Ser Whent..." Jaime trailed off, feeling his mouth go dry. Was this some other part of the test? Did he just fail by acknowledging a possible failure on his part? Geralt didn't strike him as one to do such a thing and yet... He didn't know this man either, how could he be sure?

"Easy, kid, you're not in trouble for admitting fault. The fact you're starting to think these matters through tells me you've got some sense in that head of yours. Experience and practice will help you hone this skill out the older you get. Now, sit down before your legs give out."

"Thank you..." He crossed the distance, sitting some feet away to the Witcher's left. What he wouldn't do for some wine...

"Now tell me, what did you expect your father and sister to say?"

"Lecture, more so in Father's case than Cersei's though she dearly tries to be him. Long speeches about my duty to the family, how this should be enough for any man, much less the heir of House Lannister. Father has great plans for me, and Cersei, we're his golden twins. Meant to continue the great work he's done for the family line... On more than once occasion, he's told us he expects a dynasty to last a thousand years, one to guide not only the westerlands but all of Westeros. If not beyond."

"Fighting for one's family is more than enough."

"If my family came to harm, I'd be the first to come to their aid. There's nothing I wouldn't do for them."

"But it's not what drives you, is it? Makes you so dedicated to mastering the sword? What inspired you to pick one up in the first place?"

"...No..." Jaime answered truthfully and reluctantly, averting his gaze. "I don't care about fighting for some grand plan, I never have..."

"What about Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold?"

"They're heroes of the Kingsguard. Knights sworn and true, they would speak to me of duties aplenty to all the people of the Seven Kingdoms. To the king, to my Father, to the Faith, to the smallfolk..."

"True enough," Geralt almost sounded pleased by this assessment. "The duties and vows of a knight are easily spoken of yet rarely upheld. Even when one tries to adhere to them, contradictions and conflicts inevitably emerge. What does a knight do when if his family and the king come into conflict, and he must choose? One part of his view will inevitably become broken, and neutrality," The Witcher shook his head. "Sometimes applicable, but when the stakes are too high, or too personal... Doing nothing leaves the bitterest taste of all."

Jaime stared silently, never considering this before, it was... an unpleasant thought. The idea of being stuck between two forces he was supposed to protect and yet could choose but one or none. Who would he decide if the Faith and smallfolk came to blows for any reason at all? What if Father and Aerys Targaryen did...? What would one of the Kingsguard members do if their House became enemies to the rest of Westeros?

"It's an impossible thing to find a clear, always correct answer for. If it was a simple matter, there would be much less bloodshed in the world."

"... How is one to know then...? Experience...?"

"That and depending on the kind of man that you are. Everyone's solution to these is different, sometimes marginally, other times profoundly. Often even the best solution will leave something foul behind for you to stomach. I suspect all of the Kingsguard have experienced this too. Yet they try to stay as true to their vows as they can. Sometimes aspiring towards a great ideal is enough, even if you can't always meet its criteria."

The hint of scorn in the Witchers voice was not missed by Jaime, now was not the time to ask him why. "I do wish to fulfill the oaths of a knight, more than I ever wish to rule Casterly Rock."

"Got a feeling we're still not at the heart of the matter."

"...Aye..." He replied, feeling sweat gather on his palms and brow. With all the other possible answers refuted, the true one became clear. Or perhaps Jaime had always known it and wished not to admit it. Compared to honoring a knights duties, a family legacy, or even personal glory, it seemed... Foolish under scrutiny. To put it lightly.

"The truth is... I fight because I'm good at it. I've excelled at swordsmanship like nothing else I've done since I first picked up a wooden practice blade near as tall as me. Reading, writing, ruling, I could never care for any of it unless fighting was involved. Nothing has ever made me feel alive like throwing myself at another warrior and besting them."

"That's about the answer I expected," The Witcher said, almost off-handedly. While Jaime stared at, Geralt tossed him one blunted sword and the thick cloth. "Go to the center of the room and tied that around your eyes. Your real training beginnings today."

"W-Wait! Are you not troubled by what I said? Angry? Disgusted? I had thought..."

"You thought well, Jaime Lannister. Fighting purely for the sake of self-gratification and because other things are too tedious or too difficult for you is worthy of criticism. The fact you were honest about it and genuinely felt ashamed as you admitted so tells me you're not a lost cause or some bloodthirsty lunatic. Were you either, I'd tell you to piss off and never waste my time again."

Jaime would not have believed anyone would speak such a way to any Lannister, not even Tyrion, without fear of reprisals. Now? He was starting to think Geralt could and would challenge even Father if a reason for it presented itself. He couldn't deny his interest in witnessing such a confrontation. Or his interest in something concerning the Witcher since he'd posed his question the day before.

"If I may, Master Geralt, what is it you fight for? You're a beast hunter, you've put yourself at risk dozens of times against fearsome creatures. There must be a reason you choose to do it."

"Just Geralt is fine," He rose to his feet, wrist spinning the blunted sword in slow, steady motions. "And there is a reason why I fight, though it's not what you might expect. There's no glory in it, the jobs are brutal, dirty, and Witchers aren't well-liked where I'm from."

The spinning motion intensified, turning into a gradually complex sequence of swings and dizzying rotations. "Coin? Yes, I've fought and killed monsters for gold. But only out of necessity, to stave off starvation, thirst, or to maintain my equipment."

The force behind his swings was such the air seemed to quiver with each blow across the empty space. "My reason is quite simple, some might even call it banal," Geralt concluded the sequence, turning back to Jaime, hands resting on the crossguard. In that stance, with the early dawn shining into the room, the Witcher appeared half a mercenary, half a God. "There are monsters out there, great and small, and someone must kill them before they kill the innocent."

There was no sound in the hall save for Jaime's slow, steady breathing. He tried to quiet even this as much as possible. The silence was thick enough to be welcoming at first and maddening once the moments spent in it stretched into eternity. The stillness did little to ease the tension in his heart or the anticipation for the strike to come. The attack he could not hope to see thanks to the cloth keeping his eyes closed. And with the silence of the Stranger, come it did. A thimble of a moment before it struck, Jaime heard the wind snap to his right and moved to halt it. The two practice swords thumped noisily, too loudly. He was unable to detect the next strike and so tried to do what Geralt wanted of him, let his body fight on pure instinct.

He blocked but one more strike amongst ten. "Seven... Hells... "

"You're improving, the last round you couldn't block any of them."

Jaime scowled, or attempted to with a blindfold on, in his general direction. "At this pace, I'll be ready to fight like this in a decade."

"The point isn't to fight blind."

"Aye,... I know," Geralt explained it on the first day they'd begun this practice. Witchers were taught to train their whole bodies, pushing them to their limits. One such path was to fight without one's eyesight. To sharpen all of their senses. A fighter had a far greater chance of hearing an attack from his blindspots coming than see it. Become good enough, and the training could allow one to fight almost without thinking, letting the body react faster than the mind ever could. Jaime saw the potential of this. From the way some of the Kingsguard described the War of Ninepenny Kings, it was very likely someone could be felled by a stray arrow. From friend and foe alike. Amongst many, many other things. Getting to this point of fighting prowess, however...

Before Jaime even knew what was happening, his hand moved to halt a thrust, then a swing before a blow to his shoulder got him.

"W-What was that?!"

"The end of your rest, now, get ready."

"Geralt?"

"Yes, Jaime?"

"Your swords, you told them the writings on them were done by Dwarfs?" He inquired on the steps to the terrace, drinking a flagon of water he'd brought with him. Geralt sat ten feet away, pressing his back against a nearby pillar as he ran a cloth against the length of his silver sword. The one sometimes, but not always, used for killing monsters.

"Dwarves," He corrected. "They're one of several species in my homelands. Renowned for their hardiness, skill at arms, and mastery of blacksmithing. Their runes have special properties, some of them useful for any fighter. Others moreso for Witchers."

Jaime stared, trying and failing to imagine a species of diminutive, awkwardly wobbling men perform any of the tasks he spoke of. He could not outright dismiss Geralt, either. The Witcher was one to put things bluntly, a man who spoke of things as they were, not what they could or should be. The other day, he spoke of his best friend Dandelion, some bard who'd made his reputation on countless songs concerning Geralt's Witchers' work. With frequent exaggerations. One of the worst was of a song of him, and Dandelion slaying some creature and receiving a royal welcome at a nearby noblemen's castle with food and gold aplenty as their reward.

A pretty tale, as Geralt put it. The truth of the matter was the beast was less than half of the size they expected it to be. When Geralt returned the head, the noblemen tried to underpay him despite signing a contract for a fixed price. In the scant few minutes Geralt and the noblemen argued over the reward, Dandelion successfully seduced the man's daughter, and the two were forced to flee the castle lest they suffered execution. If Geralt hadn't clarified which story was authentic, Jaime would've found the second story more fanciful.

"For example," Geralt spoke again, no doubt seeing Jaime's doubt. He was quite the observant one, eerily similar to Father in this regard. "If you strike an armored man in the chest with a warhammer, and he's very likely dead. Do it to a Dwarf of Mahakam, and he'll get back up, curse you well enough to offend every God you believe in before shoving his fist down your throat. If he's feeling merciful."

"... Could... Could my brother go to this Mahakam?" Jaime inquired, remembering the recent letter he'd received from Tyrion. "You've no doubt heard that he is a Dwarf by now, Lord Tywin's great shame among many other undeserving names."

"I have," Geralt looked at him, his rough voice sympathetic. "And I'm sorry, but your brother isn't the same kind of Dwarf as those of my homelands. Even if I could take him back, I fear he would not return some great warrior as you expect."

Asking what he meant by "the same kind of Dwarf" was at the tip of Jaime's tongue. But he did not speak it, or allow his disappointment to show or his anger to stoke itself. He stopped and considered what Geralt told him. Of course, they weren't the same, but what was the difference then?

"I'll try to explain it in the simplest possible terms, there's something called evolution that the... Maester's of my lands have spoken of across the centuries. It's the idea that species, those capable and incapable of thought and speech, do not remain the same through lengthy periods. Instead, they change and adapt to their surroundings."

"... Do you mean the difference between wolves and dire wolves?"

This seemed to please Geralt, who smiled. "Exactly, dire wolves live farther up north, where the conditions of living are far and way more treacherous south. They've grown larger, stronger, faster, with thicker furs to protect them against the cold. Wolves of more temperament climates, by your Westeros standards anyway, changed because their environment wasn't so dangerous."

"And this... Evolution, it exists even for people?"

"Without question. Mankind wasn't born with the knowledge of forging weapons of iron or steel. They didn't always know how to build great castles or even simple huts. They lived off the land in ages passed, exposed to the elements. A hardier humanity, most likely hairier, capable of withstanding greater injury and cold than what most can manage now. Yet, mankind can never overpower a bear, or outrun a wolf, and so they developed differently, up here," He tapped the side of his head. "With a superior mind, they could out-think their predators, and eventually do so much more."

"And these Dwarves developed the same... They are not as tall as humans, but they've other advantages we lack," Jaime sighed, unable to hide his sorrow this time. "A pity, I'd hoped... Perhaps if Tyrion returned a fighter, he would be less looked down upon..."

"The same is true of humans born of dwarfism even in my homelands. They're seen as freaks, abominations,... Mutants," The last word was unknown to Jaime, the disdain in Geralt's voice explained it well enough. "Your brother is fortunate to have been born in a noble family, at least. A peasant household..."

"... So I've been told..." Jaime turned his gaze to the sun shining outside, almost wishing he could see the Rock in it. "He sent me a letter, Tyrion. His name day was yesterday, and I missed it again. Tyrion tries not to say it openly, but he's lonely. Very likely has been since I began squiring for Lord Crakehall some years ago."

"You were his only friend."

"The only one always present for a time, yes. Our uncles and aunt all love Tyrion, truly they do. They begrudge him nothing and are always kind to him. But they are grown, with seats and families of their own. They cannot always be there."

"I sense it's not a sentiment shared by your Father," Geralt said, once again proving his insightfulness. "I noticed a dark cloud hanging over his head yesterday. He was scowling harder than usual."

Jaime smiled, appreciating his attempt at improving the mood. "My mother... She died giving birth to Tyrion when Cersei and I were but children. Father never forgave him for it, and neither has my sister. I fear their absence may be the best part of his name day."

He shook his head, letting out a long-suffering sigh. "Why does it happen, Geralt? Why are some children cursed this way? Do the Maesters of your lands know? Is it truly something from the Gods?"

The Witcher said nothing for a time, cleaning his gleaming, silver blade. "Gigantism and dwarfism are conditions with several causes. In the case of your brother, I would say it comes down to his... genetics."

Jaime raised an eyebrow at the queer word.

"Genetics is a part of every person, it determines everything about you: height, weight, hair, and eye color. It can determine the strength or fragility of your health, your capacity to learn... A person's genetics are determined by numerous factors, quite often by their parents. Sometimes, a thing that appears in a parent may appear in a child. Conversely, something that appeared in your ancestor may skip a generation or even several before appearing again."

Such as dwarfism, Jaime silently concluded. He'd never taken much of an interest in looking through the Lannisters of the past, save some exceptions. He momentarily wondered if there were any recorded dwarfs such as Tyrion buried in the family records. Likely not, if they didn't extend Father's courtesy to their own offspring. Regardless, Jaime decided to investigate the matter in the coming days. Perhaps Geralt could help, he and the Grand Maester were quite close.

"I've heard stories of incest resulting in dwarfism as well."

"Incest...?" He repeated, focusing back on the conversation.

"When people who's genetic material is too close together produce offspring, it can result in their children suffering from any number of possible defects. They can be born with poorer health, psychological problems, limited thinking capabilities. They can even inherit the inclination towards further incest. Don't look so surprised Jaime, one look at the Targaryen dynasty is all the proof you need."

He misliked where this talk was heading, for quite a few reasons, some he would not wish to share.

"If any other family performed continuous incest as they have, it wouldn't survive a century. Their members would devolve into drooling imbeciles held together by diseases and malformed flesh. Prince Rhaegar marrying outside the family was a wise move. They would do well to continue the practice moving forward."

"Surely cousins are... Acceptable?" Jaime inquired, trying his best to sound natural. "The practice of marrying cousins has been in Westeros for thousands of years."

"It's safer than marrying brothers and sisters, or uncles and nieces to be sure. But that only dilutes the risk, it doesn't eliminate it."

Jaime was dearly glad Father was not present for this talk. The idea he and Mother were responsible for what Tyrion did... He dreaded to think of it. Or the possibility he and Cersei were also born... Defective.

"... Fuck..." Jaime grunted in the privacy of his chambers, left-hand gripping tightly against his sword as he awkwardly executed another horrid swing sequence. He'd pushed back as many things inside as he could, giving himself enough space to practice. While he and Geralt spent their mornings improving his fighting instincts, Jaime was commanded to train another great matter: achieving ambidexterity. By Jaime's estimate, the far more challenging task of the two.

Fighting with the blindfold, while difficult was still done with his dominant hand. This? It was like every bit of his experience, training, and talent was snatched away by the simple change of a different hand wielding the sword. Even the most rudimentary of strikes were clumsy, woeful even by the most generous of estimates. Time again, his anger threatened to explode, forcing Jaime to apply some Witcher breathing exercises to keep himself calm. No doubt this was the other, unspoken point to the training, improving his self-control. What allowed the training to remain so, and not simply some gruesome exercise in torture was the Geralt's sound logic and his expectations.

"Your enemies won't hesitate to get any advantage they can, this includes cutting off or otherwise disabling your sword arm. Even if your left hand is never as good as the right, being mediocre is still leagues ahead of being useless. Not that I think you'll ever settle for mediocrity."

And he was right, Jaime was never one to settle for anything less than being the best he could be at swordplay. He wasn't about to start now. He would consider it a grave insult to himself and to his instructor who believed he could overcome this challenge. With this in-mind, Jaime kept practicing long into the night, step by step improving.


	13. Chapter 13

The nightmare began as it always did, with loneliness and ice. Sometimes, it was Dragonstone fallen into cold ruin. On some occasions, it was Summerhall succumbing to the infinite winter. This night, as several before, it was the Red Keep serving as the frozen stage for one performer. A lone singer who's ballad was of cries of desperation, fear, and ultimately pain and who's audience was death.

"Mother! Elia! Viserys!" Rhaegar shouted as he ran through the empty, snowed over hallways of Maegor's Holdfast. Each breath left cold air in its wake and pain gnawing in his lungs. His armor rattled with each footfall, always cutting through the otherwise oppressive silence. He knew there would be no answer to his calls. There never was. And every time, he hoped something would change.

"Arthur! Barristan! Gerold!" The hallways went for an eternity, a black void in some parts whilst others were blasted open, revealing the full bleakness of his surroundings. Through the massive cracks, Rhaegar saw all of Kings Landing engulfed in snow, a white wasteland as far as the eye could see. There was no fire anywhere, no noise of city life, naught but the howling of a cold, lonely wind. The sky covered by thick, white clouds blotting out the sun began to darken, enveloping all under it in shadow.

What little reason there was to the Red Keep vanished the closer night came to fall upon the castle. Hallways went on without end, side passages, and staircases brought him to places that could not, should not be there. The shadows grew thicker, the flame of his torch began to wane, the steel sword in his hand threatened to freeze over his fingers. The billowing snow outside became a storm, devouring the interiors with each passing moment through every crack and hole. Rhaegar's run slowed, his feet struggling to make each new step in the growing mounds. He dared not shout anymore, a single intake of cold air would assuredly destroy his throat.

Then he heard it, the great flapping of leather wings, a shadow passing over the castle in the dimming daylight, and a chorus of three great roars. The dragons had returned! All was not lost, if he could just get to them, this disaster could be averted. Not even the coldest frost could withstand the searing heat of dragon fire. Rhaegar, as always, felt the dwindling embers of his strength rekindled and chased after the dragon with renewed vigor. Forgetting the inevitable futility of his efforts once again. His erratic surroundings began to take a more familiar shape, leading him to the throne room.

With a great effort, Rhaegar pushed and hacked his way through the sealed doors like a drowning man clutching for every scrape of air. Behind him, the shadows of falling night drew closer, and in the room denied to him, the roars grew louder. He even felt a rush of heat from the other side, a burning inferno waiting to embrace him. If he could grasp at but a fraction of this power, claim the dragon awaiting him, Rhaegar could still save what little there was left of the world.

The doors gave out after a final push, the roar in his throat echoing past the vacant halls and pathways of the Red Keep. With all the grace of a drunken dwarf, Rhaegar fell face-first into the throne room following his slam into deep snow within it. His helmet fell from his head, his torch was extinguished and lost from his grasp.

Forcing himself back onto his feet, he stared at the blown open roof of the throne room, allowing the intensifying blizzard outside in. Then, frantically, desperately, Rhaegar looked for signs of the three-headed dragon, of the heat he'd felt mere moments ago. There was no sign of anything or anyone there. Not a claw print in the snow, not a single sign of burns anywhere. There was naught even a trace of people. The only things in the room were himself, the iron throne... and the dragon skulls watching, judging him silently.

Rhaegar stared back, remembering the words of an unpleasant yet knowledgable voice. It spoke of power lying within those bones, leftover strength from the mighty beasts that brought the world to heel centuries ago. He was foolish or desperate enough to believe he could grasp at this power through sheer force of well, grasping at... Something that was there and slipping between his fingers regardless. Eventually, the last effort robbed him of his strength, and of what little, precious time was left, sending him to his knees.

His eyes never left the dragon bones, however. The longer he stared, the less they seemed a promise of power and salvation and more of a portent of his own fate.

"The dragons are gone, little prince," The heads of the dead fire breathers almost seemed to say to him, a contemptuous chorus. "Now, so too will their riders."

Rhaegar hated them at that moment, hated how for all their power, they died out. Dying to their own kin and to masses of enraged smallfolk alike. He hated his own ancestors for so foolishly culling their numbers, weakening House Targaryen and leaving all of Westeros vulnerable to a death not seen in thousands of years. He hated himself for knowing of this storm and failing to stop it. Such was the fury in his chest, Rhaegar almost entertained the fool notion it would be enough to make a difference.

Any fantasy of a grand, defiant last stand was shattered by the simple fact he could not get up from his kneeling position. His sword hand was so frozen around the pommel, it would snap off if he tried to brace himself on it. His torch was lost, buried in the growing snow mound around him. The armor covering his entire body had become so rigid, Rhaegar could scarcely move at all. All his years of study, preparation, skill at arms amounted to nothing. Everyone he knew, loved, admired, hated, and respect was dead and gone. He'd failed them all to the last man, woman, and child. Despair overwhelmed him, a desire for the cold to simply get on with it, freeze him dead and let it all be over.

The blizzard heard his silent plea. The clouds overhead turned from white to grey to finally black, the throne room was so dark, he could see naught at all. Yet, he knew he was not alone. Something... Moved in the shadows, vague shapes dancing about, observing him through strange, glowing eyes eternally fixed on him. The chill intensified monumentally, such was its strength Rhaegar's own hair froze around his neck. He couldn't even shut his own eyes. Then the shapes halted, their eyes moving to something beyond Rhaegar's sight. A green light illuminated his surroundings, forcing the shadow shapes to reel back.

The creatures... Hissed, the sound of icicles grinding against one another. Rhaegar felt a fresh warmth pass through him, letting him breathe and move. With a gasp, he fell upon the snow, his helmet falling from his head. When Rhaegar lifted his gaze, he found something standing between him and the darkness. It was a wolf, white as the snow itself and entirely unafraid of the monsters threatening it in their strange tongue. When the beast turned to look upon him, its eyes were red.

Rhaegar did not awake from the nightmare with a dull, agonizing headache or near incapable of even moving. Such was it when the terrors of sleep frequented him in the past since he was a boy. The experience of age only adding to their frightening clarity and terrifying complexity. Not so this time. If anything, the sight of the wolf, burned into his memory like a brand, left him invigorated, validated. There was nothing to second guess about this, it was the Witcher, turned into a living incarnation of his silver, red-eyed medallion.

For some weeks now, he'd regaled them all on an evening basis of many tales of his lands, of places where magic remained strong, ever-present. Of lands where dragons lived with honor and dignity despite their treatment, where corpse-eating beasts roamed the swamps and seas, and griffins soared through the skies, building families and terrorizing men. Rhaegar would not have believed it to be true were it for Geralt's... Demonstration. Among other things.

Though he did not dare approach the Witcher directly, Varys and numerous other would gossip and spin tall tales to his father, Rhaegar had agents of his own. The Kingsguard, though oath and duty-bound to serve the king, were no friends of his. That privilege was Rhaegar's. He was the one who trained with them until his marriage to Elia and Aerys' madness forced him to Dragonstone. It was he who took them on many youthful escapades into Kings Landing and beyond, spoke to them as people. Not as merely walking swords to stave of delusions of knives in the dark. Or any other unsavory things.

Rhaegar rose from his bed, walking to a bowl of cold water left for him to refresh himself with. The early morning sun rose in the horizon, such a sight he felt inspired to write a ballad for the first time in many moons. It was... heartening to have his mood better for a change. Still, there were other matters to focus on, far more important than his good spirits. The Witcher's combative prowess was startling and welcome, they would need as many great fighters as they could muster for the dark days ahead.

He'd learned of Geralt's interest in Harrenhal from Ser Oswell, particularly of a strange experience the knight suffered in his youth. From other, less famous agents, the Witcher's interest in the ruined castle and the curse long since rumored to hang over it was known to Pycelle. The Grand Maester had shared many a tome on the subject. The Witchers' interests in matters of little concern to those who could, and should care, did not end there. He'd inquired into the Valyrian Freehold, the Doom, the Age of Heroes, the Long Night. Yet, it was one matter he discussed with Ser Barristan which surprised and shook Rhaegar profoundly.

"Geralt spoke with Ser Gerold, and I of the weather, Prince Rhaegar," The bold knight told him during the hour of the wolf, in the safety of the vast Godswood. It was a place few frequented, and fewer still knew as well as Rhaegar who spent many, many days of his youth observing and traveling through its thick, winding pathways. "He asked us if our winters or summers last as long as he heard they did. When we told him it was true, he was troubled..."

"Troubled...?"

"Aye, I believe his precise words were: how the hell are any of you still alive? He explained to us of his own homelands seasons, how all four of them lasted but months, three at most. How they were constant, with some years being warmer or colder. Completely unlike our own seasons here."

"A winter lasting but months?" Rhaegar repeated. The very idea was absurd, unbelievable. Yet, this was the Witcher. A man who, for all of his experience in the arcane arts, seemed entirely incapable of flights of fancy. Then he remembered something of the Long Night from the tales of a winter that lasted an entire generation. Rhaegar's own blood seemed to freeze as a horrifying thought came to mind.

"We thought him jesting, at first," Barristan said, his low voice dropping lower still. "There was no humor. If anything, Geralt seemed to grow paler still, pressing a hand against his temple."

"Did he say any more...?"

"Only that there was more Witcher's work to be done here than he thought."

Was it truly possible, was the influence of the Others still strong over Westeros? Their power cast a darkness over the land millennia before the first Andals or Valyrians came. Who was to say its effect did not persist even now? He'd proposed this to Maester Aemon, writing to his wise, aged kin on the Wall numerous times of The Witcher. He'd hoped to meet the strange man and to inquire into matters of magic. Aemon did not openly write of the Others, yet from his words, Rhaegar knew he'd begun to suspect something foul afoot as well.

If only he could find a chance to speak to Geralt directly, with no others around. Even with his closest confidants, Rhaegar was hesitant to overtly speak of his visions, his thoughts of prophecy. They would begin to doubt him, think him a different kind of mad from Aerys, and in the days to come, he needed every staunch ally he could. To present himself as the infallible prince they all believed him to be. Yet, with the Witcher, he could speak openly. If there was any man who would not think him mad, it was one who'd clawed his way from the matters of magic time and again.

Geralt crept through the mostly vacant hall, his steps making neither sound nor vibration. His fingers gently tightened and loosened about the pommel of his sword. He didn't wish for Jaime to so much as hear the creaking of his leather gloves. The boy stood in the center of the room, blade held in a middle guard in both hands and knees bent slightly. His breathing was faint, measured, executing the exercises Geralt imparted on him with flawless rhythm. His posture was still somewhat tense, particularly around his shoulders, much of the rest of his body gave off the false impression of almost arrogant ease.

Geralt hesitated to call it to deem it good, not until he struck. Whirling his blade in a silent, semi-circle, he struck Jaime's left side from behind. He intentionally let the blunted weapon aim high, only to change course in the last possible moment and go for his legs. Jaime leaped forward without looking and turned his entire body around in time to meet Geralt's follow-up attacks. The boy withstood a swift, frontal Fiery Dancer sequence with greater ease than before, his arms and body moving to deflect and block the blows.

When Geralt switched strategies, choosing a heavy, Temerian Devil overhead blow, Jaime answered it well. The boy knew he simply couldn't take the Witcher strength versus strength, and so he wisely didn't try. Instead, the young Lannister let the attack hit and push him back. He did not awkwardly stumble into messy footwork, allowing the momentum to carry him and practice to cushion his landing. Then, his legs twisted, using the considerable inertia to empower his own overhead strike.

Geralt avoided it and, feeling a bit clever, plunged his sword into the spet Jaime's right foot was poised to land on. The boy froze, leg hovering inches above the sword and completely unsure what to do. When the sword swung to Jaime's other leg still on the ground, the boy successfully leaped back and regained his balance.

"Is fighting one-legged the next step in our training?" Jaime huffed, wiping some sweat from his brow. "Allow me to venture a guess: once a three-headed snail poisoned your left foot, and you had to hop on a single leg to defeat it?"

"There's no such thing as a three-headed snail, wise-ass," Geralt reprimanded him, even as he smiled. "And yes, I've faced the difficulties of fighting with a leg immobilized. My knee was once shattered and didn't heal properly. On several occasions, it gave out from under me."

"Truly? It does not seem to hinder you now."

"I went someplace, very far away. Let's just say my wounds, old and new alike, were healed there. No healer or Maester can match it in this regard."

"A useful place, mayhaps I could go there should something ill befall me?"

"Be better than I was, and you won't have to," In a show of self-depreciation, Jaime snorted, no doubt thinking this an impossibility. Not that it stopped him from trying. The boy's desire for them to fight one day, closer as equals, was still present. Tempered now with some wisdom and patience. The past few days, he'd done so well in the sparring ring, he'd gotten this morning off to relax. He chose to spend it prolonging their secret exercise for the day.

The truth was, Jaime had great potential. Even beyond his sword skills, exemplifying the adage that a man could be born to fight, there was intellect, consideration, and even compassion in the boy. If he could weather the storm of the real world and continue resisting some of his own worst tendencies, Jaime could be a great man. Not just a knight or lord. He wouldn't tell him this, not yet, Jaime's ego had been lessened to a reasonable level. It would not do to upset this.

"But you were right, there will be another step in your reflex training, taking on more than one opponent at once."

"I'd assumed we'd come to that, sooner rather than later."

"You assume well. Whatever men your father chooses for this task may not be my equals in swordplay," Jaime snorted again. "But they don't have to be. Even the best of the best can only compensate for his enemy's numerical superiority for a time. Often times, it's better to simply retreat to more favorable ground or give way entirely, live to fight another day."

"Many men would balk at such a thought," The boy smiled, resting his palm atop the sword handle. "You'd balk at their stupidity."

"One of life's greatest gifts that keeps on giving is witnessing the infinite ways people screw themselves over for pride or glory," While his student was resting, Geralt swiftly moved to see how well he could do when they weren't actively fighting. To his satisfaction, Jaime reacted quickly, whirling his blade and blocking Geralt's thrust aside. "Good, you're paying attention."

"I'll not fall for the same trick again."

"Thank you for telling me, I'll be sure to resort to my many, many other tricks henceforth."

Two hours later, once morning was well and truly underway, the two parted. Geralt commanded Jaime to take the remainder of it off, rest was just as important as practice. A warrior gained nothing by torturing his body. He'd take his own advice too. Between tutoring Jaime, training with the Kingsguard, sharing information with Pycelle, investigating the oddities of Westeros, and entertaining a lunatic, Geralt had kept himself busy these past few weeks. Lying down in his bed, enjoying a meal or two, and simply reading a book for the sake of itself, there were worse ways to pass the time.

So, of course, something was wrong. Before Geralt had even reached the chamber, he heard someone asking for him. This, someone, was a messenger, bearing something from Aerys. An immediate summons. The Witcher sighed, feeling a wave of irritation pass over him. Irritation and trepidation.

"I'm here, royal messenger," Geralt said with the utmost respect, bowing to the young man who struggled not to jump at his sudden appearance. The nearby guards seemed faintly amused by this. "How may I be of service to his majesty?"

The man collected his strength and turned to face Geralt, doing a remarkable job of appearing dignified even as his heart still beat like a drum.

"His Grace demands your presence at the throne room, Master Witcher. In our king's own words, he wishes you to behold the end of the Kingswood Brotherhood."

Geralt said nothing, did nothing but look at the messenger. No, past the man, no doubt growing uncomfortable under the snake-eyed gaze. Toyne had been sent to the Wall, most of the rest were dead. There was only Wenda the White Fawn left of the Brotherhood, and now Aerys was going to burn her alive. Let wildfire devour her, and make Geralt watch...

"M-Master Witcher...?"

"Let us make haste then," Geralt said, unblinkingly, fists clenched and voice harder than steel. "We wouldn't want to anger the king, now would we?"


	14. Chapter 14

The walk from the Tower of the Hand to the throne room passed far too quickly for Geralt's liking. The halls and courtyards all becoming indistinguishable from one another. Perhaps it was the foreboding sense of anticipation shrinking the distance. Or more, likely, it was the intense effort and concentration he'd silently exerted to suppress it, and many other unpleasant emotions in a mask of careful neutrality. So far, it was working well. He hoped it lasted until this... Execution was over.

As with his last visit to court, one of the Kingsguard, this time Ser Oswell, demanded Geralt to relinquish his swords. He wordlessly acquiesced, letting his eyes linger on the man's face. How was it possible for men such as these, almost valiant knights, to stomach serving this madman? After a glance, Geralt understood how. It was shockingly similar to what he and many other Witchers had done: going dead inside. Not simple emotional self-control, but finding someplace within yourself far, far away so the horrible things in the world couldn't quite get to you. A form of psychological suicide.

It seemed a wise thing to do until you realized it didn't. How it left you stunted, broken, and miserable. Clutching for numb comfort until some part of you, desperate to feel anything inevitably snapped. Geralt was just lucky enough for his snap to come from finding friends, and eventually a family. Not everyone was so fortunate. Though he somewhat resented them for doing nothing, Geralt respected these men enough to wish they found some true peace. Maybe if that disgusting gaunt lunatic did everyone a favor and dropped dead.

The throne room was much the same as last time when the doors parted. Courtiers numbering in the hundreds swarmed and crowded on each side of the hall. Their expressions either faintly numb or strugglingly sycophantically smiling. The dragon bones hummed with power, the energies almost abuzz with what was about to happen. At the center of the throne room, obscuring much of the Iron Throne was the stake. The base of it was littered with dozens, hundreds of smaller woodpiles, reaching Geralt's knee. The stake itself reached well over ten feet into the air, and bound around it near the top was Wenda the White Fawn.

Geralt had inquired in the reputation of the various Brotherhood members. Simon Toyne, the leader, was the disgruntled son of an old Stormlands house that fell from favor by choosing to support the Blackfyres. The Smiling Knight was an enigma whose real identity and name were lost to history. Some thought him like Toyne, a former noble who's family fell to ruin. Others claimed he was a Ninepenny Kings veteran who'd become disfigured and transformed during the conflict. The rest were smallfolk, peasants who'd turned to thievery and murder from desperation, tragedy or bloodlust and greed. Wenda numbered among them.

The stories spoke of a young woman with a long neck, smooth skin, and long, golden hair. As beautiful as she was dangerous. Her skills with a bow were feared, and good enough to fell several men even amid combat with relative ease. She was also fond of torture, carving, or burning marks into some of the Brotherhood's captives. What ferocity there may have been before was gone. The woman tied to the stake was beaten with several bruises across her lowered face, her golden locks sliced away so as not to cover it. Geralt heard her silent sobs, the terrified thumping of her heart.

"Master Geralt!" Aerys greeted with far, far too much enthusiasm for execution from atop the Iron Throne. "I am most pleased you've arrived on time! The demonstration is about to begin!"

"I would not miss it for anything, your majesty," Geralt lied, bowing to him.

"Indeed," The madman smiled, managing to entwine his fingers. "Some time has passed since the presence of wildfire has graced the Red Keep. Fortunately, my loyal subjects have found a most worthy criminal to feed it too."

Geralt heard Wenda's breath shiver behind him.

"I've no doubt it will be an event to long remember."

"You've no idea," Aerys' eyes narrowed with the widening of his smile. "Come, take your place, Witcher, while my Alchemists complete the final preparations."

Rossart smiled and bowed to Aerys, removing himself from the rest of the small council standing at the base of the throne. The Alchemist smiled and nodded to Geralt as he moved away from Lucerys Velaryon at the eastern side of the hall. The Witcher found Grand Maester Pycelle at the westernmost end and took a spot between him and Varys. The spymaster was a thousand worlds away, judging by the vacant look on his face. Pycelle was not quite so far gone, managing to smile at Geralt, which was returned, even if both of them must have looked quite forced. Already, the other courtiers whispered among themselves, eyeing Geralt with interest, desire, and envy. Until the Alchemists began their work.

From a side entrance leading to the throne room, several of them entered, aiding Rossart. They carried with them jars of a green liquid. Pycelle had explained this was wildfires dormant state, dimmed with sand and numerous other substances but always ready and capable of transforming into flame. Geralt was interested in the alchemical brew, thinking how useful a more controllable form of it could be for Witcher work. Not that he'd tell Rosart this, the lickspittle would talk Aerys' ear off about such a meeting and a thousand horrible things would come to pass.

The Alchemists poured the liquid into the base pyre of the stake, showing incredible care and practiced slowness while doing so. Geralt's already vibrating medallion shivered more quickly under his armor. The courtiers nearest to them backed away, their fear palpable despite their attempts to hide it. Wenda did no such thing.

"Piss on you..." Geralt heard her whisper, cold fury in her voice. None heard her, at first. "P-Piss on you!"

The force of the voice was surprising, along with the audacity behind it. Numerous court attendees gasped and balked at this breach in etiquette, as though a woman sentenced to die was still expected to give a damn about such a thing. At that moment, the broken creature seemingly resigned to her fate was gone, the White Fawn had retaken her place. The only one to find amusement from this was, as always, Aerys.

"Well, well!" He chortled, slapping his taloned hands against an armchair. "The beauty of the Brotherhood has some strength left yet! Good, good, it will make your screams all the more delightful."

"Not as delightful as yours..." She smiled, revealing rows of broken, bloody teeth. "Your time will come... Mad King. May the Mother curse you, may the Smith break your bones, and may the Stranger bugger you in every hole through all seven fucking hells!"

Everyone stopped whatever it was they did, as though they'd become petrified, their gazes moving between Wenda and Aerys. The former, knowing she had nothing else to lose, smiled on defiantly. The latter smiled not, gripping the armchairs of the Iron Throne.

"Rossart," Aerys' voice was as cold as a tomb. "Get on with it."

"... As you command, your Grace," Rossarts slithery voice answered after a moment. Banishing his fellow Alchemists with a wave of his hand, the pyromancer took hold of an offered torch and hefted it in his hand. The tension grew, Geralt's hands clenched into fists, dozens of other attendees grew stiff, as though the fire was coming for them as well. After what he'd heard about Summerhall, the Witcher couldn't entirely blame them. Eventually, the moment of dread came when Rossart flung the torch.

The effect was as instantaneous as it was horrifying to behold. The green liquid poured at the base of the stake reacted several times faster than ordinary flames. In seconds, the entire lower portion was engulfed with fierce, blinding, and unmistakably magical green fire. The blast of heat seemed to suck all the air from the room. Geralt's medallion vibrated so fast it began to irritate his skin. The stories, as was always the case, were incapable of capturing its frightening power.

The stench was overwhelming, making Geralt feel woozy though he resolved not to show it. This became much more difficult when the stake itself, and then Wenda, began to catch fire. The odor of burning, human flesh felt like knives twisting inside his head and twisting his stomach into unnatural contortions. Wenda, defiant still, did not scream at first. It wasn't until the rest of her teeth cracked from the clench that she could not hold back anymore. A cloud of thick, black smoke engulfed much of the sight. No doubt, many could not see the burning, and they were lucky. Geralt, the small council, not so.

Wenda's wails continued as the fire traveled along the length of her legs, burning the dress put on her and spreading the flame quickly up the rest of her body. Her skin turned grey than black in the span of moments, and she still didn't faint or die. On and on, it seemed to go on, torturously endlessly. Geralt's fists were clenched so tightly, it was all he could do to not break something. The rest of the attendees steeled themselves, went away, or stared in open horror, everyone but Aerys.

When the Mad King laughed, it was as though a cold rush of water was poured onto Geralt. He cackled at the top of his lungs, clapping his hands and moving restlessly atop the chair. As though he were an excited child watching some grand performance. Such was the volume of his laughter, it drowned out Wenda's screams. Geralt stood there, listening to the macabre symphony between the two of them... And decided to do something.

A part of him said to do nothing, she was a criminal who killed innocents, robbed them and used men, women, and children as hostages. All of this was true. Wenda deserved to face justice and to answer for her crimes to society. What she didn't deserve was to be a fly for a Mad King to laugh at as he picked her wings off. So, Geralt did the only thing he could without overtly bringing the ax on his own neck, even if it brought considerable risks all on his own: he chose to give her a cleaner death.

Drawing from the power of the wildfire and the dragon bones, Geralt, taking a quick glance about the room, relaxed his hand. Then, he tried to lock eyes with the struggling, burning woman at the skate, executing a series of almost imperceptible finger motions without moving the rest of his arm. When the flame burst again, ascending to new heights, the flash of it concealed the white, momentary flash in Geralt's eyes. There were many reasons it shouldn't have worked. Distance, pain, and yet it did. Wenda's screams suddenly grew faint and then died entirely. Her head slumped and tensed, burning body relaxed atop the stake.

"Wake damn you!" Aerys' joy evaporated into a wild rage. "Wake! Worthless brigand whore! You'll not deny me this joy! Guards! Guards! Run her through and wake her!"

The nearest guards stared at him, unsure of what to do. From the center of the small council row, Geralt saw Tywin stir for the first time, no doubt moving to forestall such idiocy. Not that he had to. Before anyone could do anything, the flames burst again, and the unconscious Wenda was utterly consumed in the fire. What was left of her skin, mouth, eyes, hair, it was all incinerated within moments. She made no sound whatsoever. In silence, the rest of the throne room observed as the stake holding her up snapped and fell to the floor, Wenda's body vanishing into the flames.

From Geralt's right side, Pycelle let out a shaky breath. "Thank the Gods she fainted..."

"Rossart!" Aerys barked, causing the pyromancer to reel back as though struck. "Put this fire out and away with you! Away with all of you! Court is no longer in session!"

The attendants began to shuffle out of the room with varying levels of urgency. The pyromancers surrounded stake area like vultures and began applying large quantities of sand over to quell it. Geralt moved back out through the main entrance, accompanied by Grand Maester Pycelle. Listening and looking closely, the Witcher tried to catch some hint he'd been spotted using magic. A whisper, a sign, anything. But there was much noise to discern, much he could not see...

"Master Geralt...?" Pycelle spoke as they reached the entrance. "W-Would you take offense if we did not have our scheduled meeting for the day...?"

"No, Grand Maester," Geralt let out a breath he'd been holding for what felt an eternity. "I feel like shit too."

The walk back to the Tower of the Hand was a trudging experience. Geralt felt as though he'd spent the past ten days and nights fighting without sleep, food, or rest. The only grain of solace he found came from having his swords back and thwarting Aerys' disgusting enjoyment, for all the good it did. The act also ran the risk of revealing his full capabilities, something to cause fear and no doubt spur many a plot if he'd been spotted. There were many hasty fools in court, but also many careful considering vipers as well, those who could wait with this information for days, perhaps even weeks, until the perfect moment.

There was no choice, Geralt would have to leave the Red Keep for Harrenhal as soon as possible. He would have to speak with several people before going to Aerys, to run through his various points and ensure the go-ahead was given. Letting the madman know of a magical curse carried its own risk, but the danger might also bring Ciri and Yennefer over to this world and even the scales considerably in Geralt's favor.

But that was a matter for another day, now, Geralt simply wished to get to his chambers and sleep.

"Geralt!" Ser Gerold's voice came from afar, and sure enough, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard crossed a small distance of the sparring courtyard to greet him. "Well met."

"Same to you," Geralt replied while clasping his hand, trying not to sound too irritated. Or to notice the piece of paper that had suddenly appeared in his palm. "I see the Frey boy is at it."

"Aye, Ser Oswell is teaching the lad to make use of his strength. Closest thrice-damned thing he's got going for him with a sword."

The Witcher nodded, hoping this conversation ended soon.

"True..." Gerold's good mood dimmed a look of understanding in his face. "I know you were at the... Execution. Care for a round in the ring? It can help... Ease the burden, as it were."

"Thank you for the offer, but no, I think I've had my fill of excitement for today."

"Very well," He stepped aside. "I'll not keep you then, rest well, my friend."

Rest would come later, the first order of business once he reached the chambers was a thorough inspection. Geralt keenly observed it in every way he knew how, looking out for new scents or prints, or anyone nosing about in the hidden rung ladder along the length of the Tower. No one came into his room, and nothing left behind was disturbed in any way. Once he was reasonably sure of this, Geralt sat down at the end of the bed and unfurled a scrap of power slipped into his hand by Gerold.

'Come to the godswoods heart on this days twilight, Father will not summon you tonight.'

Geralt stared at it, wondering why Prince Rhaegar wished to speak to him. The solemn young man seemed lost in his own thoughts most of the time. Showing some interest in the numerous tales the Witcher regaled them with daily. It was just as likely this was but an act, meant not to show too much before Aerys, lest he raise suspicion. Did he have some mad demand like his father, of something Geralt either couldn't or wouldn't provide under even pain of death? Was it a mere political meeting, a son working to usurp his own parent? It'd been done before, and the Mad King courted a coup with each passing day.

The Witcher told himself he would refuse such an involvement, at first. He'd already become entangled with numerous monarchs who lived or died, directly and indirectly, thanks to his actions and inactions. Geralt helped to kill Radovid for the threat posed to Yennefer, Ciri, and his numerous other friends. Aerys was no menace to them whatsoever, and yet, having a ruler who he could count on for what may lie in the future would be useful. Because, though he was loathed to admit it, there was no chance in hell Harrenhal was the only thing wrong with this only seemingly magically dormant planet.

Their horribly disturbed seasons, a massive Wall built to keep something on the other side out... He sighed, burning the scrap of paper with an insignificant Igni. It was too soon to make up his mind. Once he saw the measure of Rhaegar, perhaps then Geralt could choose how deep he'd throw himself down this particular well. But first, he was getting some rest. All else be damned.

The godswood was a place Geralt had meant to visit sooner, especially once he'd learned their history. Wooded areas built into every castle when the First Men reigned in ancient Westeros, they were and in the North still are, vast stretches of wilderness, places of worshiping the numerous old gods. Besides being grooves paramount to their entire belief system, however, they contained within them unique trees: weirwoods. Bone-white, with red leaves and sap, these trees had faces carved into them by the enigmatic children of the forest, the first species to inhabit Westeros. A means of communicating with their gods.

Numerous stories he'd familiarized himself with spoke of their magical properties, how it was impossible to lie before one, how the children of the forest and even men were once able to communicate through them. Geralt was no pious man, he cared nor thought much of the gods business, but the rest of it intrigued him. There was nothing quite like it back home. Most of the weirwoods were cut down when the Andals arrived. The largest concentration of them this far south could be found on the Isle of Faces, close to Harrenhal.

Even without one of these strange trees, the godswood of King's Landing still contained quite a bit of the power within it. Geralt's medallion began and continue to noticeably vibrate as he walked through it. The ever-present elm, alder, and black cottonwood felt distinctly different from the energies of the dragon bones. Those were of fire, the most uncontrollable form of power one could tap into, promising power and danger. This was of the earth, reliable, old, and more pleasant. It didn't hurt that the setting sun gave the godswood a damn soothing glow. Perhaps once the girls arrived, he and Yennefer could enjoy a walk or two in this place.

As he neared the center of the forest, Geralt set these thoughts aside, focusing instead on the only other man inside this place save for him. Prince Rhaegar waited at the chosen spot as promised, wearing a doublet in the colors of House Targaryen and unarmed. His only possessions that Geralt could see were a leather bag and rather large wine flask. When the Witcher emerged from the forest, checking again to make sure they were truly alone, the prince rose from the tree he'd pressed his back to, smiling for a change.

"Good evening, Prince Rhaegar."

"Master Witcher," He offered his hand. "Thank you for coming, I've wanted to speak with you privately for some time."

"Seems so," Geralt shook it. "Am I correct in taking you... Disinterested demeanor during our many dinners together an act for your father's sake?"

"To a point. Truth be told, I've always been a bit of a distant person, caught in my own world. But make no mistake, Geralt, I've listened very intently to all you've said. Come, let us sit, wine?"

"Don't mind if I do," The Dornish red was a welcome taste as Geralt found the nearest tree to Rhaegar's, sitting down against it. It'd been weeks since he'd been around nature, he'd forgotten how much he'd missed it. "I need it after what happened today."

"Aye..." Rhaegar took the flask back, taking a swing from it as well. "As does any man with his wits about him. Though, I cannot deny feeling some satisfaction from the ruination of his pleasure today."

If the prince meant anything by this, an implication of knowing why Aerys' favored pastime was ruined or suspecting the reason, Geralt could not see any hint of it anywhere in the young man's face, voice, or general demeanor.

"Truth be told, I did not summon you to discuss my father. The matter I wish to bring to your attention, it is of less... Mundane nature. Tell me, Geralt, what has Pycelle told you of Azor Hai? Or the prince that was promised?"

"It's an old prophecy. It tells of some great warrior who'll deliver the world from darkness. One born under a bleeding star? Apparently, it's a myth shared across Westeros and Essos, a rarity from what I know of your cultures."

"Do your lands have such a prophecy?"

Geralt studied Rhaegar carefully, noticing something change in his voice. "Why all this interest in what long-dead people said would happen thousands of years ago?"

The heir of House Targaryen did not speak but locked gaze with the Witcher as if some terrible thing would come to pass if he answered the question. Perhaps it would, as far as Geralt knew. Eventually, Rhaegar reached for the bag he'd brought and produced a scroll from within. It was aged, the coloration of the pages slightly yellowed.

"I discovered this within the depths of Maegor's Holdfast when I was but a boy of seven years old," He offered it to Geralt with the utmost care. "As I told you, my interests were elsewhere from what most expected of me. I was one to read, to devour all the knowledge I could. I never wished to so much as touch a sword... Until I found this."

The words were familiar if faded. Silently, Geralt read through its contents. It spoke of Azor Ahai, though in greater detail than anything Pycelle's tomes held. It spoke of a great shadow of winter returning to the world, of mankind brought low in a time of frost and death, of a savior born amidst salt, smoke, and a bleeding star to save them. A leader with the power of a three-headed dragon at his back, ushering in a new age for humanity. A song of ice and fire.

"Since that day," Rhaegar spoke with a weight upon his shoulders. "I've dreamed of the darkness. Countless times, I've witnessed the end of all that I know, love, and even hate. Of a world in frozen ruin, of endless night and winter. Always, I try to find the three-headed dragon, and failure is all I achieve. Failure and my own death."

Then his gaze returned to the Witchers. "Until last night, when a great, white wolf with blood-red eyes came to my rescue."

"To the rescue of the prince that was promised."

"I was born amidst salt and smoke, the salty tears of my parents, and the smokes of Summerhall burning next to us. Though," His resolve seemed to waver. "There was no bleeding star, for myself or even Rhaenys."

Geralt looked to him, then back to the scroll, and exhaled softly. Prophecy was a troublesome creation back home, here and quite likely everywhere else it seemed. Ithlinne's Prophecy came to pass for them, and Ciri rose to meet it, destroying the White Frost to ensure it never threatened any world again. On more than one occasion, he'd considered the similarities between this event and the Long Night, the story of Azor Ahai.

Were these Others creatures of ice, an entire species, unlike any back home? Or merely a fanciful interpretation of mutated humans who'd been changed by the White Frost's climate shift? Alvin, as Jacques de Aldersberg, showed him this was very possible. Were these children of the forest the same way, or merely elves who aided mankind before they declined and left this world? Was this Azor Ahai another seed of Lara Dorren, coming to this sphere and saving it?

Perhaps their portent was rendered null and void by the completion of Ithlinne's. They might have had nothing to do with one another. Geralt silently doubted this, adding one more thing to investigate in the coming days. Right now, however, he wished not to share his thoughts on all this. Not with Rhaegar who, try as he might, had desperation in his eyes. Desiring a validation of his musings and obsession as a thirsty man craves water.

"Rhaegar," Geralt eventually said, handing the scroll over to him. "I've never told you of the Law of Surprise, have I? It's an old, hallowed custom in my lands. Its importance is equal to that of your guest right, even if it happens less frequently. Obey it, or suffer grave consequences, from gods, destiny,... pick whichever you like. It dictates that a man saved by another is expected to offer his savior a boon. It can be the first thing that comes to greet you or what you find at home, yet you don't expect.

"I invoked this law, and in doing so, bound my adopted daughter to myself with something thicker even than blood. For she was a child of surprise. But I too was young, and foolish, I did not take her with me, despite many opportunities presenting themselves. Time and again, I rejected my destiny. Then, Nilfgaard invaded Cintra, Ciri's homeland, and for a year, I thought she was dead."

He paused, remembering that time. How lost he'd been, how afraid, how self-loathing, suicidal even. His despair, it was unlike any he'd felt by that point in his long life. The debacle between himself, Istredd, and Yennefer was nothing in comparison.

"Then, at risk of my own life, I saved another, a merchant's whose path I crossed. The man showed rare gratitude, nursing me back to health, carrying me to his home. The Law of Surprise was invoked again, that which you find at home, yet you don't expect. And what Yurga didn't expect was to discover another child at his house, a war refugee taken in by his wife. An ashen haired girl."

Hearing Ciri's voice, embracing her, it healed him, in body and mind. It was as if the whole world, for but a moment, made sense, was just, fair and perfect. He couldn't stop himself from smiling at the memory, gazing at the sun very nearly falling off in the distance. Rhaegar observed quietly, a look of surprise and vindication present on his face. Now was the time to get rid of it.

"You asked me earlier if we have a prophecy of doom in our own lands, we call it Ithlinne's. It speaks of a time of sword and ax, a time of contempt and madness, a time of end. Only a special someone could prevent it, a child of the Elder Blood. The Blood of Elves. Emhyr var Emries, Emperor of Nilfgaard, wished to be the progenitor of this savior."

Geralt scowled, feeling bile rise in his mouth. "In pursuit of this, he invaded his own daughter's homeland, putting thousands to the sword. Then he waged war against many other nations, destroying entire cities and spurring a hatred between humans and non-humans that burns fiercely to this very day. All because of his egotistical interpretation of the Ithlinne's Prophecy, how only he was worthy enough to be the progenitor of the world's savior since he couldn't do it himself. Emhyr was willing to stoop so low in pursuit of this, his ultimate plan was to father this child... By marrying and impregnating Ciri, his firstborn.

"And do you know what it all amounted to? Nothing. Emhyr was only ever a pest. A horrid parasite who ran tens of thousands of lives to the ground, his own child's, simply because he wanted to fulfill his egotistical fantasies. Now he rules the world, as far as he knows, and his own daughter has completely disowned him. The great White Flame will die out knowing he was a thoroughly shit father, and it bothers him. I saw it myself."

Through all this talk, Geralt's voice rose, not quite a yell but louder than what he usually spoke. His hands shook, and it took quite a few deep breaths for him to steady himself. In the distance, the sun had nearly set, only a trickle of light was left. To his left, the Witcher looked at Rhaegar and found something else in the young man's features.

Shock, disgust, and more than a hint of... Shame? Whatever the reason was, the wild flame in Rhaegar's eyes dimmed. His shoulders slumped, and he simply looked lost, defeated.

"Drink some wine, it'll help," Rhaegar did so, drinking down quite a bit more of it the second time around.

"This is... Not how I thought our conversation would go, Master Witcher..."

"Truth be told, neither did I," Geralt leaned against the tree, enjoying the smell of the forest about him. "But I do have one last piece of advice to give you. Something that helped me when I too didn't know what to make of fate and destiny."

The prince looked at him again, looking like a hopeful child and not a man grown. "Destiny, prophecy, fate... They may or may not play a role in our lives. Regardless, they aren't enough Rhaegar, you need something else, something more."


	15. Chapter 15

Geralt heard him long ere he saw him, and he'd detected the little birds lurking in the shadows before that. How they waited inside small crevices, silently skulking around corners and swiftly moving to pass information over to the next one. During his journey to the godswood, Geralt hadn't noticed a marked increase in their spying activity. Now, in the return journey to the Tower, they were being overworked, to pass off his chose route for their master in waiting. It was a system as impressive in its almost clockwork efficiency as it was disgusting in its moral repugnancy.

Even the Spider, a man of considerable weight, strategically moved past some hidden pathway in the serpentine steps with nary a noise, arriving at their center before Geralt. He would concoct some lie about an evening stroll, or perhaps a chance meeting between them after some business. The Witcher slowed his step, his fingers reflexively curling and his shoulders tensing in anticipation of danger. Varys could have approached him for a more private conversation at any point during Geralt's stay and didn't. His reason for doing so now was patently obvious like the full-moon hovering overhead, he'd seen the Axii. The vacant, dead inside stare during the execution was nothing but a convincing bit of acting.

Still, what was his play? The Spider, despite his apparent loyalty to the crown, didn't strike Geralt as so sycophantic to inform the king. Aerys would go off like a bomb, forcing the Witcher to perform any number of insane rituals, expecting a dragon to blossom from them. It would be Summerhall all over again, perhaps worse. Was he hoping to force Geralt into some kind of servitude? To hold him, hostage, through the information? Or he knew nothing precisely, and this was but a scheme of baiting the truth out.

Whichever it was, it meant trouble, and the sooner Geralt got it over with, the sooner he could plan out his next move. So, with an imperceptible sigh, the Witcher relaxed, feigning ignorance and taking comfort in the presence of his swords. This, and the lack of guards or would-be assassins in the serpentine steps. Varys, hearing the approach, began to walk, acting as though he were just ahead of Geralt.

Deciding to get this over with as quickly as possible, the Witcher called out to him first. "Lord Varys, out for an evening stroll?"

"Master Geralt," The Spider replied with utmost pleasantness, slowing his step and smiling until they were side by side. "I could ask the same of you, I trust you're enjoying a reprieve from the monotony of royal dinners?"

"I won't deny it, there's only so much venison a man can stomach before he tires from it. Visting the godswood didn't hurt either. It's been a while since I could enjoy a bit of undisturbed nature. Prince Rhaegar chose a good place for our meeting."

They halted, Geralt very pointedly looking at Varys. The Spider returned the gesture, all good humor vanishing from his face. His overweight body stiffened, and for one without enhanced senses, they might think him concealing a weapon in those thick, purple sleeves covering his hands. The lack of it didn't weaken the threat of the man, quite the opposite. When he smiled again, it was anything but pleasant.

"Cutting to the heart of the matter," His voice cooled by several degrees. "A privilege I rarely enjoy in my line of work. Very well then, Master Witcher, let us speak plainly then: what did you converse to the prince about? And why, if anything, have you done to him?"

"If you're wondering whether or not I cast a spell to brainwash him, I'll have to disappoint you," Geralt replied with an edge to his tongue. "Rhaegar asked me of prophecy, destiny, and one's involvement in it. Perhaps I give myself too much credit, or I'm a worse judge of character than I thought, but I may have taken his head out of his ass."

"A most impressive accomplishment, if true. Rhaegar has long obsessed over prophecy and destiny, even moreso since the birth of his daughter who's existence he rarely acknowledges. And you accomplished this without any of the sorcery you wielded to influence Wenda the White Fawn?"

"Calling my Signs sorcery would be a good joke if you ever find yourself in a circle of mages and sorceress'," Geralt answered, taking note of the venom in his voice at the mention of magic. "They're rudimentary, lacking in great power or complexity. Parlor tricks to proper masters of the arcane arts, but for a beast hunter, they get the job done."

"And yet, our lands our lacking in such regards. Even a parlor trick, as you call it, maybe a dangerous weapon. Perhaps too dangerous to allow."

"Don't give me a reason to use it, and I won't. Which I rarely have since arriving here. In-fact, the Axii I cast today was the first Sign I've used in weeks."

"Truly?" Varys snorted, even as his eyes narrowed. "You've not used this... Axii at anyone else at court? You've the power to influence the minds of others and have only used it to spare a murderous brigand from the flames?"

"You overestimate the power of my Sign. It can only affect weak-willed individuals, men such as yourself, Tywin, the Kingsguard, and numerous others would be impervious to it. Those who aren't would only fall under my sway for a moment, and the means of casting it is far from subtle, what with my eyes glowing white. You, or any number of others, would have noticed it immediately. And I don't want Aerys to know, because both know what his obsessions would lead to with this information."

"Yet this self-imposed rule did not stop you from casting a Sign on Wenda the White Fawn."

"Yes," Geralt answered immediately, boring his eyes into Varys'. "Even a murderer and brigand like Wenda doesn't deserve to burn for the amusement of a cackling lunatic. That... Execution was nothing but a deranged child picking wings off a fly. There was no order or justice to any of it."

"It was the king's will, does that not make it justice already?"

"If one unflinchingly believes in a king's authority above all else, then yes, I would assume so. I don't, there are some lines no one should cross, be they beggar, priest, or monarch."

"A most appropriate choice of words: belief. The instigator of countless miracles and tragedies, birthing kingdoms, and ruining dynasties. You are not wrong in this regard, Witcher, what is Aerys' will to a man who does not recognize it?"

"The same thing religion is to one who doesn't believe in the gods or wealth is to man indifferent to it: nothing. Now, if we're done philosophizing, I'd like to know what you intend to do with this information."

The Spider said nothing, examining Geralt with a calculating gaze of one accustomed to finding treachery and lies everywhere while creating many himself. It was the same look Dijkstra had during the numerous, unpleasant times, Geralt had to stomach in his company. But if deceased Redanian intelligence officer taught him anything, it was Geralt's own poor capability to lie. And how easy it was for a trained eye to see through his deceptions. So, he answered everything truthfully and hoped it would be enough.

"I despise magic, Witcher," Varys eventually said, the disdain obvious to see and hear. "I loathe it and all those who practice it. Now and forever. But I am no fool, you've changed things, Geralt, forever. The days when men could ignore the arcane are numbered, and to combat it, we need one such as you. Oh, you may pass on your knowledge to us, your insights. Yet they are a poor substitute for raw experience which you've plenty of. And I know of the things that interest you, Harrenhal, the Wall, the strangeness of our seasons to yours, there is much work for you here."

Geralt felt no need to answer, for the Spider's words were a statement, not a question.

"Yes, I thought so. An unfortunate set of circumstances, however, we all must adapt to the times in which we live and all they challenge us with."

"That's it? You're simply letting me go?"

"For now,..." The Spiders slithery voice replied, his face half-shrouded in darkness. "Your experience as a monster slayer aside, I believe I've taken a proper measure of the man that you are. For all your intellect, all your deadly skill, you are, Geralt of Rivia, a good man. A man with scruples and utterly lacking in ambition. An admirable quality, yet in the court of King's Landing, that all but renders your other, dangerous qualities null and void."

"It's always pleasing to know basic human decency is so frowned upon."

Varys laughed with genuine amusement, even as his eyes remained humorless. "My point exactly. Good night to you, Master Witcher, and rest assured, I'll not stand in your path when you present the Harrenhal issue to the king."

"A world with less magic is a far better one," This time, it was Varys who remained silent, the satisfaction on his face saying more than words ever could. He began to walk away, his purple robes flowing in the wake of his quiet retreat. Before he left, however, Geralt could not help but satisfy his curiosity.

"Lord Varys?"

"Hm?" He turned around, face exposed thanks to the moonlight shining down from above them.

"How old were you when you were changed because of magic?"

The Spider's gaze, as deadly as it was imperceptible in nature, implied he would take offense and say nothing. Then, it did not soften so much as grow distant, as though the spymaster was looking past Geralt to someplace far, far away. It was a look he'd seen on his fellow Witchers many times when the darker parts of their history at Kaer Morhen were brought up.

"... Ten years old."

Geralt nodded, looking at Varys with some pity. "So was I."

* * *

Days later, after performing some final preparations with his allies and making a few requests, Geralt found himself in the Council Chamber. Situated in a building adjacent to the throne room, the meeting place between some of the most powerful men in the realm was expectedly opulent. Richly furnished carpets were placed along the length of the room, a carved screen on the western side gave a detailed map of all of Westeros. The western one was adorned with tapestries from Essos. On each side of the entrance, stood a pair of malevolent looking, black marble sphinxes from Valyria itself.

Tywin once told Geralt that after a time, Aerys refused to meet with him privately without all of the Kingsguard present, a show of profound paranoia now extended to the Witcher. As still as the sphinxes, the seven bodyguards stood tall, still and imposing in their white armors, covering each side of the room in pairs. Arthur Dayne stood by Aerys' right at the head of the tall table at the heart of the room. Ser Gerold kept a tight hold on Geralt's swords. The entire small council was assembled as well. Tywin, Pycelle, Varys, Lucerys Valeryon Qarlton Chesteald, and the, until recently absent master of laws, Symond Staunton. Missing for the past few weeks due to an ill period of health. Curiously and thankfully, Rossart was absent.

"Your majesty, honored members of the small council," Geralt said in a loud, respectful voice, bowing to his waist to the gathered group. "I would first like to thank you for taking the time from your busy schedules to give me this audience."

"How could we not, Master Witcher?" Aerys smiled pleasantly enough, a gesture that made Geralt's skin crawl. "From what you oh so mysteriously told us during yesterday's dinner feast, the matter is of grave importance. Why you appeared even more dour than usual!"

The lickspittles, so most of the small council, laughed along with the king. As though it was the cleverest jape in the world. Varys and Pycelle only smiled out of forced politeness, Tywin and the Kingsguard could have been carved from marble themselves.

"People always do compliment my sunny disposition," Geralt feigned a smile as well. Letting them laugh even harder at the self-deprecation. This, however, did bring some genuine amusement to Varys, Pycelle, and even some of the Kingsguard. "But you're right, your majesty. The matter is of grave importance unless I am thoroughly mistaken, I believe there is some Witchers work to be done here in Westeros."

"You mean a beast to slay?" Ser Gerold asked from Aerys' left. "Another vampire, mayhaps?"

"Something more dangerous, I believe. But also more... Abstract," Confusion, fear, and curiosity permeated through the assembled men. "If you'll allow me to tell another tale, I believe I can illustrate my point clearly."

"You may."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Geralt bowed his head. "During my time here, I've told you of many dangers faced by Witchers, creatures who feed on corpses, beasts comprised of the dead, underground dwelling swarmers, insectoids the size of a horse. However, there is one threat we also deal with, the root cause of many problems in my lands. The Grand Maester already knows of what I speak."

"And I urge all those present to listen well, for it is no small matter."

Geralt nodded at the support. "The threat I wish to draw to your attention is one I believe already lingers in Westeros, in quite plain sight: a curse."

"Your list of adversaries grows more and more colorful, Master Witcher," Tywin said with all the discreet disdain of a flailing warhammer, playing his role expertly.

"Life is quite colorful in the ways it tries to kill people where I come from," Geralt riposted, adding some bite to his tone. Aerys smiled approvingly at this. "But yes, curses are quite real where I'm from, I've encountered and broken dozens over the years. One which always comes to mind is the case of Princess Adda of Temeria. A girl cursed before she was even born and turned into a hideous monstrosity.

"You see, Foltest, the last king of Temeria, had an incestuous relationship with his own sister. Unlike the renowned Targaryen dynasty, such a practice was not looked upon favorably there. Even less so when it became known that Foltest impregnated her and planned a marriage. It during this time, the curse was cast upon mother and daughter both. The first effect of it was claiming their lives during childbirth. The caster being either a jealous courtier who wished Foltest' sister as his own, or Foltest mother, furious with the incest."

A thick silence fell upon the chamber, even the hardiest of these men showing signs of discomfort. In the case of Tywin and even Aerys, there was a far rawer emotion neither man could successfully conceal.

"For seven years after their deaths, nothing was amiss... Until one night, the child emerged from her tomb. In all that time, the curse transformed a simple, dead baby girl into a monstrosity of unquenchable hunger for human flesh, and a profound hatred of all living things. Adda had become a Striga. I want you to imagine a beast larger in size than a bear, with a wild red mane, endless rows of teeth capable of rending steel and hateful, black eyes. Now, imagine such a thing coming at you in the middle of the night, and you've no chance of escaping or killing it."

Some of the small council, such as the masters of law and ships paled at the thought. The assembled Kingsguard tensed and quite openly stared at Geralt. Aerys, as he'd done before, seemed to shrink into his seat. Whether it was from the tale or Geralt's flat, hoarse voice, it didn't matter. They were getting the point.

"For the next seven years, she terrorized the citizens of Temeria's capital, ruthlessly, gruesomely. Foltest couldn't bring himself to kill her, he wished a cure for the curse. Many tried it, even other Witchers, none of them succeeded at lifting it until me."

"... A-And..." Symond Staunton spoke, trying not to tremble. "H-How did you do so...?"

"Someone must prevent the Striga from returning to her coffin by the third crowing of the rooster. This would temporarily break the curse and revert the beast into an ordinary, if mentally addled, girl," Geralt craned his neck, giving them a good look at the scar that very nearly killed him and left him incapable of turning his head for months. "Easier said than done, even for a Witcher. And yes, I said temporarily, some curses can be broken, others sent into a kind of dormant state, Adda can and has relapsed. I was forced to restore her humanity again years down the line."

"And what brings about these... Curses?" Varys asked.

"The officially recognized cause of them is magic. Many a tome categorizes a curse as a malevolent spell cast on a person or place that brings a wide variety of side effects. Sometimes, men and women become inhuman beasts. Other times it may be outright death. Or, it can be as simple as ever-present misfortune following an individual. Causing them failure in their profession, love-life, or any number of other things. From my experience, mundane disasters can also cause a curse to hang over a place, acts of supreme violence, and death that naturally gather negative energies around themselves. Such as Harrenhal."

"You believe the curse of Harrenhal to be true?" Lucerys Valeryon asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "Are we to really entertain such-"

"Silence!" Aerys slammed the desk, a wild fire in his eyes. "Let the man speak."

"Thank you, your majesty. Yes, I wish to bring Harrenhal to your attention, for it is clear to me that a curse hangs over it. In your lands, noble houses tend to last centuries, if not millennia. Yet, Harrenhal has cost well over half a dozen families their very existence. Houses Hoare, Qoherys, Harroway, Towers, Strong, and Lothston, all made lords of Harrenhal and all lasted barely a few decades at best. Tragedy, death, even madness, growing with increasing frequency."

Ser Oswell stiffened at those words, struggling to stare or look away from Geralt.

"And yet," Tywin answered, sounding appropriately unconvinced. "You've spoken of how diminished sorcery is in Westeros, how is that an entire castle, the largest in the land, could be cursed? Or will you produce another exception to suit your needs?"

"I said silence, damn you all! The next who speaks who interrupts without my permission will suffer the same fate as Ilyn Payne!"

"As I said," Geralt broke the silence, letting Aerys simmer down. "Acts of extreme cruelty can bring forth a curse to hang over a place as well. Not just magic, though, Harrenhal has more than enough of both. Harren the Black scoured the riverlands of resources, no doubt condemning countless to death from famine and exposure alone. Then, he used forced labor to construct his impregnable fortress, leaving their dead bodies buried amidst quarries. Now, imagine such repugnant human suffering go on for forty years. I've seen places become cursed for far, far less, and in shorter time to boot. Then there's Aegon the Conqueror."

Aerys leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with rabid curiosity.

"This was a time when magic was not so diminished in your lands. When the sight of a dragon, while incredible, wasn't deemed impossible. And the greatest of them, Balerion the Blackdread, a living embodiment of the power itself, unleashed it all upon Harrenhal. The scorching flame of dragon fire would've been a molten bath of magical energies, destroying all within, yes, but also leaving a trace. No one and nothing can unleash such a display of power without some consequence. And as we already established, Harrenhal would've been ripe for a curse before the Conqueror ever set his sights on it. Lord Symond?"

"... Yes?"

"Might I borrow your cup of wine, I'm a bit parched."

"O-Of course, Master Witcher..."

Taking his sweet time to enjoy the Arbor red, Geralt allowed his words to etch themselves into the assembled group. For a moment, Varys inclined his head, and offered a smile, impressed the Witcher assumed. Most importantly, Aerys was thoroughly invested. Like an anxious child, he squirmed in his seat, with terror and anticipation.

"Witcher," He said when Geralt downed the cup. "This curse... Would it... Would it hold greater power over... Targaryens?"

"Without a doubt," He brazenly answered, getting stunned stares from the lickspittles. "House Targaryen brought an end to Harren the Black and his entire lineage. If there is anyone who would suffer from its effects profoundly, it would be Aegon's heirs. Though, I doubt the curse will discriminate against anyone. Which is why I believe it must be removed from the castle, by any means necessary. Particularly since the entire realm plans to go there soon for a tournament."

"And you can stop it?"

"I can," Geralt said, feeling pleased with how the conversation was going thus far. "It will require me to travel to Harrenhal personally and perform an investigation of its ground, to find the highest concentration of power and break the source of the curse."

Aerys' enthusiasm cooled, he misliked the idea of Geralt slipping away. An expected reaction, and with a prepared response.

"Your Grace," The Grand Maester spoke, not unkindly. "If Master Geralt is given leave to go, I would personally accompany him on such an endeavor."

The rest of the assembled men turned to the Grand Maester, more or less all of them stunned at his proclamation with varying degrees of authenticity.

"Not only to act as a witness, so that we may add credence to Master Geralt's works and all else he wishes to accomplish, but also to aid him in the investigation. From what he has told me, it is a task made far easier with a group and not simply one man."

"It could be dangerous, Grand Maester," Geralt warned him again with genuine concern. The old man, though gulping, managed to gather his strength.

"Perhaps, yet... I feel duty-bound to go, regardless, with your permission, of course, Your Grace."

"I would also ask to accompany the Witcher," Ser Oswell stepped forward, kneeling in Aerys' direction. "My family rules Harrenhal, and I grew up within its ruined halls. My knowledge and my sword will be of use on this endeavor."

"I too for your leave, sire," Ser Arthur volunteered next. "As Geralt demonstrated, Dawn is a blade of magic, and if we are to face a threat of power, then I believe having another of those at our disposal will be a boon."

"I've already prepared diagrams for weapons and even armors," Geralt said. "We'll need quite a bit of silver for both, and perhaps some training for the Kingsguard to acclimate themselves to them. However, we should be ready to leave within a week, perhaps even less."

Aerys leaned back in his seat, a genuinely thoughtful look on his face, ruined by the taloned finger running across his chin. He glanced at those willing and ready to leave time and again.

"A Witcher, two of my Kingsguard and my Grand Maester, a most interesting group indeed," Then, he smiled again. When he glanced at Tywin, a lump of ice formed around his stomach. "Such a group will need an aide, or perhaps a squire to help them in this venture."

Tywin's eyes hardened, his gaze boring into Aerys'. Rather than be intimidated by this, the Mad King was not cowed. If anything, his amusement grew.

"Your son Jaime, he's earned quite a reputation here as a capable lad from my understanding. Perhaps if he lives up to it, he could earn his knighthood during this arduous task, eh, Tywin?"

"... It would bring great honor upon House Lannister, Your Grace."

"Splendid!" Aerys clapped his hands together, relishing in Tywin's acceptance. Geralt, meanwhile, kept a neutral expression, even as the desire to reach across the table and throttle the prick was very tempting. There was nothing for it, the king's mind was already made up. Now, it was up to him to make sure this new group he was taking into danger lasted better than the one before them...


	16. Chapter 16

The choice before him, like many others preceding it, wasn't simple by any stretch. Geralt was aware of it would come to this since the formation of his Harrenhal curse-breaking scheme weeks ago. From those earliest days, when the plan was in its nascent stages, he knew Aerys would never let him leave alone. The Mad King would want to keep his newly acquired pet Witcher under close watch if he couldn't contain him within the Red Keep. He would also desire witness accounts from credible members of the inner court circle as it were, men who could back up the claim of a genuine curse, and very likely much more, haunting the blasted ruin of Harren the Black.

This alone would present many an issue, practical and more personal. Both of which were respectively made more complicated by Varys and Aerys. If what he thought awaited them at Harrenhal was, they would need his Signs, particularly the Yrden. This meant revealing to even more people that he was a sorcerer, pathetic in comparison to the magic wielders back home. In Westeros, however, even a little was much. Just as Varys told him some days ago. Could he trust them to this secret? The Spider being aware was enough to heighten Geralt's awareness of the danger around him.

Fighting while concealing the Signs would make a dangerous endeavor all the moreso. Even with the diminished magic of this world, once their curse attempt got going, the entire length of the castle would become exponentially more dangerous than it already was. A single well-placed Sign casting could be the difference between life and success, or death and failure. This is where the personal aspect became troublesome. Geralt had gotten to know the people who were willing, and tasked, to accompany him on this job. Perhaps not for long, but enough to build a rapport, even friendships. He'd already lost friends before, men and women who'd accompanied him and paid dearly for it...

It was only made worse by the fact Aerys had thrown Jaime into the thick of it as well. Despite their less than friendly initial encounters, Geralt had grown fond of the boy, enjoying the time they spent sparring and talking. It reminded him of Ciri... and Alvin. Both children he'd taken under his wing, one of whom succeeded in coming out alive and happy from the dire circumstances thrust upon her. The other, changed into someone, something, Geralt had no choice but to stop with what he knew at the time of their duel. Where would Jaime end up, he wondered and dreaded as the sound of many footsteps reverberated in his ears from the halls of the Tower of the Hand.

He waited for them inside the hall used during the hidden practice matches with Jaime. A secret he could, thankfully share with the party with Tywin's permission. It was part of the payment he and Geralt worked out for Jaime's tutoring some days ago in private.

"Three favors," Geralt said, inside Tywin's private study, the same evening he'd spoken to Rhaegar and Varys. "That's all the payment I desire for services rendered and will continue to for the duration of my stay here."

The Lord Hand commented but with a single imperceptibly raised eyebrow.

"If the circumstances ask for it, yes. I won't be unreasonable, of course. You have my assurance I won't use these favors to ask of anything thoughtless or ridiculous from you, like half of the Rock or a seat in the westerlands. In fact, the very first favor requires that you only act much the same as in our first encounters, dubious of me, my motives and of magic before Aerys when I present my Harrenhal plan to him in the coming days."

Tywin silently contemplated this for a moment, unsure of the deal. Did he find but three favors too little a price to pay for his son's improved sword skills and mentality? That may have been part of it. Geralt thought he was busier gauging if one of these three favors could screw him over in the future.

"Anyone else would demand chests of gold or perhaps more for the service you've done House Lannister, a number of them quite foolish," He eventually spoke, leaning into the seat. "You are fortunate then, Geralt. I do not consider you foolish or greedy enough to overstep your boundaries in this arrangement. Regardless, I still hold the right to refuse your desired favor if it does not suit me, agreed?"

"Agreed."

Tywin played his role well, perhaps too well. Once Jaime became involved, Geralt spent his second favor to bend the rules of the arrangements secrecy. He was loathed to grant this, but once Geralt explained how much easier the preparation would go if Jaime could put his newly acquired skills to the test, and how much better the task itself would end from it, Tywin agreed. Accepting the necessity of honesty could save all of their lives. The irony of this didn't escape Geralt's notice in the least, or help give an easy answer to the conundrum facing him.

With a knock and creak of the wooden door, the group entered the hall. Arthur and Oswell, wearing the almost blindly white armor of the Kingsguard, ready and dutiful for the meeting. Grand Maester Pycelle, heaving from the tiresome ascent but smiling nonetheless and finally, Jaime, sweating and curious, fresh from the sparring yard, no doubt. Four, not counting Geralt himself. Larger and smaller by one than his first and second Hanse's, respectively. Just as with them, the position of leader was thrust upon him, and seeing them there, Geralt's mind was made up.

"I sympathize with your plight, Grand Maester," Geralt smiled, taking a book of his own making and rising from the terrace steps to greet them in the center of the room. "Don't worry, I won't have you suffer walking up these stairs much more often."

"Words to comfort an aging man's soul," Pycelle sighed, a look of relief on his face. "And his knees..."

"Mayhaps, you should join us in our training?" Ser Oswell grinned while Pycelle blanched. "I'm certain we'll make a warrior of you yet. You'll be hard-pressed to find better tutors in such an endeavor."

"As interesting as that would be, Ser Oswell," Geralt came to his rescue, walking over to hand the book. "The Grand Maester will have his own battles to fight."

Pycelle accepted it and opened the first page, the sense of wonder so often found in his eyes whenever Geralt regaled him of tales from his world returned tenfold. Though it was a breach in good manners, the Grand Maester, as an excited youth, could not resist but dive into the work.

"Master Geralt is this...?"

"Yes, it's a series of incantations, prayers, and other verbal rituals, translated from the tongues of my lands to your own language. I've even included pronunciations of the original sayings and ranked them from most to least potent. They'll be your silver blade once we arrive at Harrenhal."

"... And what exactly are we doing at Harrenhal, Master Geralt?" Jaime inquired, trying to get a peak in the book to his left with all the subtlety of nosy brat. "Ser Arthur only said my presence was required."

"Apologies, Geralt," Arthur said, looking politely remorseful. "You're the expert and leader, I thought it best for you to inform young Jaime of our task."

"That's fine, Ser Arthur. I've much to say to you all regardless, a great deal of it not from the meeting..." He exhaled. "And some of it which cannot leave this room. Under any circumstances."

The three men who already understood the basics became attentive, while Jaime's curiosity and even excitement grew. His sword hands were twitching, and there was no mistaking that glint in his eye. No doubt, the thought of going out on a mission with such a group was causing his flights of fancy habit to rear its ugly head. As usual, Geralt decided to put a premature end to it. For his and the group's collective good.

"We go to Harrenhal for Witcher's work, the curse there has been a grave threat for centuries, and it's up to us to put a long-overdue end to it. And no, Jaime, I don't exaggerate what my work is or what it needs me to do. You should well know that by now."

The other occupants of the room looked at their apparent familiarity with one another with surprise and interest. Jaime looked stunned, and even a bit afeared, purposefully avoiding the other's gaze.

"Jaime and I are acquainted yes, the hows and whys I'll explain shortly. But first, there's the matter of the curse and what danger it could present to us when we attempt to break it."

"Monsters," Ser Oswell said, his gruff voice stiff. "You mentioned such occurrences can bring them about, yes?"

"Exactly, not every curse brings about or is connected to a monster. When they are, monsters are either the cause or the consequence of the curse's existence. I hope in this case its the latter, it'll make things considerably less dangerous for us all. My boundless optimism is rarely rewarded, so we're assuming its the former. Given the nature of what transpired at Harrenhal, we're looking at wraiths, specters, and other such ghostly apparitions will be our adversaries."

"... We're fighting spirits...?" Jaime languidly repeated as though he were simple. The Grand Maester momentarily looked surprised, but Geralt had told him enough by this point to dampen his disbelief. Ser Arthur remained politely neutral, waiting for Geralt's impending proof. Ser Oswell said nothing, yet the scowl on his face and the stiffening of his entire body betrayed his anxiety and anger.

"That's the most likely scenario, yes. Specters come in many shapes and forms, they're frequently some of the trickiest opponents for a Witcher to face. Not the least of which comes down to their ability to become incorporeal or cross distances while vanishing from sight. Against such enemies, we'll need more than just Witcher training and silver swords. We'll also need one of these..."

* * *

Jaime had listened to many of Geralt's tales during their breaks. He spoke of beasts with queer names, coming in shapes and sizes that sounded as incredible as they were formidable. Many appeared too fantastical, too out of the tales from bygones ages to actually exist. But spirits, wraiths? It sounded too unbelievable, and curses as well? Yet, what stopped him from entirely dismissing this was not just curiosity but Geralt himself. The Witcher did not lie or embellish the truth of his work, he was bluntly forthright in what it entailed and did nothing to soften its blow. Perhaps he said this because he knew people would be slow to accept this, in contrast, to say vampires or ground burrowing nekkers?

Whatever his reason for keeping this quiet, Jaime would soon stop to care for something else sent his mind into a whirl of shock and amazement. With his eyes closed, Geralt seemed to concentrate on something, his left hand extended outward, his knees bending alongside it in slow motion. When the first crackle of purple thunder danced through his fingers, Jaime thought he'd imagined it. When it happened again, he assumed madness was upon him. When Geralt thrust his hand at the floor, and the lightning crackled about him, engulfing him in a glowing ring of magic, his mouth hung open.

It was magic! Geralt had performed magic! The realization was slow to come and only stunned him for longer. Unblinkingly, Jaime observed the sight, watching the purple lightning dance in place around the floor, its glow, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. Several points were comprising the circle, runes of some kind in a language he could not begin to decipher. It almost seemed... Alive, from the way that it moved, the way it crackled with the faintest sounds of lightning.

Yet, Jaime was not so astonished as to miss something else change, this time with Geralt. Looking at his instructor, the Witcher looked at his own creation with a thoughtful expression, perhaps even surprise. His eyes passed over the length of the circle, narrowing at it, his gaze eventually resting on the palm of his hand. Before Jaime could ask what was wrong, someone else spoke first.

"By the Seven,..." Grand Maester Pycelle gasped, the aging man staring in a wonder equaling Jaime's end. Only, he dared to approach it.

"I wouldn't do that, Grand Maester," Geralt put whatever troubled him aside and refocused on the group. "The Yrden is a trap Sign. Those who enter or even touch its edges can suffer harm. In the case of living beings, it can wound or slow them down. While specters become corporeal beings, far easier to kill."

Pycelle retreated while Ser Arthur approached, looking intently at the spell. "Signs... is this what the sorcery of your land is called, Geralt?"

"Signs are nothing but primitive spells. Witcher's use them because they require little concentration to use and can be activated quickly in the heat of battle. Proper wizards and sorceress' don't bother with them, they've got far better at their disposal. For our purposes, the Yrden will more than suffice, however."

With a wave of his hand, Geralt did something to the circle. It's lights winked out into the nothingness, along with the strange runes comprising it. Once it faded, there was no trace left of it at all.

"Incredible," The Grand Maester breathed again, coming to one of the places where the rune was, running his hand across the stone. "I had my suspicions that there was more to you than you let even me know... But this..."

"Is something that stays between us," The tone of Geralt's voice was severe, Jaime hadn't heard him speak like this since the earliest days of their training. Even the look he gave one and all sent a shiver of fear across the young Lannister's body. Pycelle stepped back, while Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell appeared... Strange. Jaime could not guess what they were thinking. It eerily reminded him of Father.

"Don't ask me why when most of you know full well. Aerys would use this information to concoct all sorts of insane plots, and everyone in this city would suffer for it."

Jaime's mouth hung open again, to speak in such a way... It was treason, what was Geralt thinking?!

"You speak ill of the king so brazenly," Ser Oswell smiled even as his eyes narrowed. "Careful Geralt, many would not take well to such acts."

"I'm aware Aerys' ass kissers are as endless as the stupidity driving them. I don't care. As the leader of this group, your lives, your well being is my responsibility, and this knowledge could very well see you through this. I've also spent enough time to know you all, you see things as I do, though you've never spoken it aloud until perhaps today. Aerys cannot know of this."

"We are bound by oath to serve him," Ser Oswell said with some force, and far too little of it when addressing some who spoke this way of the king. "You would have us lie to His Grace should he ask us of a truthful account?"

"Your oaths also tell you to protect others in this castle," Geralt's voice might as well have been made from ice, and his gaze of pure venom. "Or is the queen's well-being not important when-"

"Enough!" Ser Arthur's voice cut him off, commanding and powerful... But still lacking in anger. In-fact, the Sword of the Morning looked miserable, his sigh carrying with it the weight of something terrible upon his shoulders. When he locked eyes with the Witcher, there was resignation and even shame in his face. "... You've made your point, Geralt, please... Do not speak more of this..."

Ser Oswell, who's lip curled in distaste, stood there with sheer despondence plain in his face. The Grand Maester shook his head in silence, taking a shaky breath even as the tension in the air hung over them like an executioner blade. Geralt's demeanor changed not at all if anything, the longer he stood there, the more Jaime's mind wondered just what they were talking about? Was the king hurting the queen? Did the Kingsguard know this? It was frightening, impossible to consider, and yet... Geralt would not react like this over nothing.

Jaime felt something twist in the pit of his stomach the more he thought or rather imagined the implications of this. A part of him wished to play the indignant knight to defend his king's honor against such insinuations. He said nothing, these men wouldn't speak of such things if there was not some truth to it. Eventually, Ser Arthur's eyes met Jaime's and properly left again, the shame becoming clearer.

"On my honor as a knight," He said, looking to Geralt instead. "And as a Kingsguard, I swear I will not reveal the truth of you and your Signs, Geralt. For your own good... And of the realm."

To emphasize this, Ser Arthur bent his knee and bowed deeply. Soon enough, Ser Oswell did the same. "I follow my sworn brother, I'll not speak of this to anyone, even under pain of torture or death. Not even the king."

"I too swear myself to secrecy," The Grand Maester, with far less grace and ease, knelt as well. "Many things you've confided in me, and I've not betrayed you, Master Geralt. May they take my chain and fling it into the sea if I should do so now."

Then came Jaime's turn, he followed the knights. "I swear to keep this secret," His voice was rough, making him cough. "From all those who should not know it, even from those closest to me."

Geralt scrutinized them all, silently and intently. Soon enough, some of the tension in his own shoulders seemed to fade, and eventually, he nodded. Even if he looked uncertain still, of their oaths or his choice to reveal this? Both? Jaime could not say, but he knew he did not wish to break Geralt's trust, especially if he took such a great risk to speak of these matters to plainly.

"Alright, you can get up, the theatrics... Weren't necessary," He sighed. "And I apologize for... Speaking of sensitive matters. Let us not go there again and focus only on what task lies before us, agreed?"

"That is what we came here for," Ser Oswell answered. "Now, tell me truthfully, Witcher, that thing I saw as a lad... Will we face it?"

"It's very likely, yes. The dead man, covered by the sea and consumed by flame, came to you on the two-hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Harrenhal's incineration. Many apparitions only appear during certain times of day, in such specific instances, they can only manifest on dates like this with years separating hauntings."

"You don't seem to take much comfort from this," Ser Arthur pointed out.

"The incantations," The Grand Maester said. "From a cursory glance, I saw some within meant to invoke such... Creatures, you mean to spur the wraiths into revealing themselves, yes?"

"If we're lucky, the source of the curse will require them and perhaps some ritual drawings cast at the epicenter to begin the breaking process. Given the longevity of the power hanging over Harrenhal, we're sure to be accosted by spirits. If a spirit itself is the heart, then we'll have to fight and banish it into the netherworld to end the curse."

"... Harren the Black...?" Jaime spoke again, voicing what the others no doubt already knew or guessed. He could not keep the wonder and curiosity from bleeding into his voice. "Are you saying we could actually meet Harren the Black himself?"

Geralt was not so enthused. "It's very possible, Harren was the architect of the castle's misery long before any dragon king decided to make an example of him. If there's any wraith who could be the lynchpin of all the misery wrought by the places magic, it's him."

"... Seven hells..." Ser Oswell muttered. "What are the chances of him being the only one? Harren sired eight sons, all of whom perished alongside him when Aegon the Conqueror struck."

"At the very least, we'll have nine wraiths to contend with and possibly more. The numbers will not favor us, and I very much doubt we could fulfill Harren's request to peacefully send him on his way."

"Such a thing is possible?" Ser Arthur asked, stroking his chin. "If so, is it truly not pursuing?"

"If this were a smaller, less severe case, then yes. Unfortunately, I doubt Harren will give us any demands we can accomplish, for practical or ethical reasons. The last great hateful spirit I attempted to settle down peacefully demanded the body parts of his previous torturers to leave. I tried fooling it with pigs part, but it was too clever for that."

"Then it is with the sword we solve this, good," Ser Oswell actually smiled, some of his mood improving at last. "I've long since wished to trounce the prick who terrorized me as a boy. Tell me what must be done, Geralt, and then let me at him."

"To do that, I'll have to explain what you've all no doubt noticed, my... Familiarity with Jaime."

Before the young Lannister could recover from yet another well delivered surprise from Geralt, or voice the fact no one was to become aware of their arrangement, Ser Arthur spoke. In fact, he even seemed to smile and find little trouble at sending a knowing look Jaime's way.

"I can guess, your student made a slip the other day, letting one of my blows carry him into an answering blow. Very similar to what you so frequently do, Geralt."

"I-It could not be helped!" Jaime said, hoping to forestall any ire to rise back in the Witcher. "It happened on instincts, was that not what you wished of me to accomplish?"

"Calm down," Geralt said, entirely unconcerned. "I figured it would happen sooner or later, though I hope you tell me of such instances henceforth. You can relax about your father knowing too, I already got his permission to let everyone here know."

"It does not surprise me," Ser Oswell commented. "No offense, lad, but your father is one to grasp at an opportunity when he sees it."

"I would be more astounded if he didn't try to enlist Geralt as your hidden instructor," The Grand Maester said, smiling and giving Jaime a knowing look. The lad could not help return the gesture, knowing it was useless to deny such observations. "We shall, of course, keep this between us as well, lest Lord Tywin's enemies at court become aware of it."

"Aye!" The knights of the Kingsguard said in unison.

"Good, then we can move onto the next important point, your training," Geralt looked at the knights. "In our practices, Jaime and I have done reflex training, binding his eyes with cloth and forcing him to use his other senses and ultimately, pure instincts, to let him anticipate and respond to danger. It may sound simple, but from both of our experiences, you will get far worse before you return even to your previous skill level."

"I've the bruises to prove it," Jaime quipped, earning laughs and smile from the others.

"Your silver swords and armors aren't complete yet, and they may prove an added hurdle to overcome, but you'll have to. Until they're ready, you'll practice with your standard equipment."

"In the meantime, I will begin learning these incantations," The Grand Maester said with conviction, holding the tome given to him tightly. "Rest assured, Master Geralt, I will know them by heart before we leave the Red Keep."

"Good to know, Grand Maester," Geralt replied, smirking. "Because I intend to test your knowledge much in the coming evenings."

Pycelle was not deterred by this, if anything, the thought brought out a smile. The kind one saved for an opponent who's challenge one enjoyed. "And I will endeavor to pass without fault."

He nodded, returning his attention back to the Kingsguard. "Your training will begin today, and Jaime's private sessions had a fortuitous consequence, it means there are two of us capable of acting as instructors."

Jaime blinked once, twice, and on the fifth, his mind seemed to recover. "... I beg your pardon?"

"Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur are different in the necessities of their regiments. The former is staunch in his defense, preferring strength and solid footwork above our speed and mobility. I'll have to work with him to make sure he can adapt to the training. Ser Arthur is closer to how we fight, and his prodigious talent with the sword will make him a far easier student."

"... Student...?" Jaime repeated, staring at the Witcher as though he'd gone mad. He must have gone mad for certain! How could he, a boy nearly half the Sword of the Morning's age and but a squire train Arthur bloody Dayne in anything? The very thought was madness, not the least of which insulting to the knight.

"I know I'm throwing a lot your way in so short a time," Geralt said, his rough voice unusually smooth. "But I wouldn't thrust this task upon you if I didn't think you were up for it, you've learned well, Jaime and in such a short amount of time. If you feel something is amiss, I'll help you, you're not in this alone."

"And I will pay close attention," Ser Arthur bowed his head, not at Geralt but Jaime! "Your skill with the blade is great, Jaime, and I will be honored to learn anything I can from you."

Caught in this situation, one madness after another, Jaime could do nothing but silently, and stupidly nod his head as the only answer. Meanwhile, in the back of his mind, Ser Oswell's words from moments ago rang truer than ever.

_Seven fucking hells._


	17. Chapter 17

The Kingsguard were as still as statues, their white armor resplendent in the afternoon sun shining into the room. Both of them stood ready to attack or defend. Ser Arthur held Dawn in a close left stance while Ser Oswell took a phalanx position with his silver sword and shield. Both had thick cloths wrapped around their heads, making sight an impossibility. The scent of perspiration hung heavy in the air, Geralt could practically see the waves of exertion made stench rolling off of them. Silently, steadily, he and Jaime both stalked around the two knights, waiting for an opportunity to attack. 

Though, Jaime's footwork was not quite as silent as Geralt's, letting out a thump every so often. The Witcher didn't begrudge him this, if anything, letting your anticipating enemy think you've made a mistake can present an opportunity for later. When the lads latest footfall made them twitch just a bit too much in Jaime's direction, he struck. Ser Oswell reacted immediately and appropriately, his shield meeting each blow with a satisfying clang. When he moved to counter-attack, Geralt leaped aside in a half-circle. Jaime went after him next, striking Ser Oswell from the side, only for Ser Arthur's blade to intercept the cut. 

The boy tried to goad Ser Arthur to break the back to back position with his sworn brother by feigning weakness with little success. Geralt decided to aid him by rejoining the fray, letting his footfalls give away his place in the room only to squeeze just in-between the Kingsguard with a tight but fast pirouette. Ser Oswell's reflexes served him well, his sword meeting Geralt's strike for strike. Jaime went on the offensive as well, darting in and out of Arthur Dayne's reach with swift blows followed by equally quick retreats and repositionings. 

When Ser Oswell tried to strike back with a shield swing, Geralt broke off from their engagement entirely and switched out with Jaime. With the Sword of Morning, the Witcher did not engage, letting his blade spin in quiet, rhythmic motions as close as he could get the knight without provoking his attacks. Ser Arthur didn't take the bait, breathing in and out in the automated sequence Jaime had passed down onto him. It was not a matter of trust, the Dornishmen knew Geralt could and would strike him to wound and hurt. His body simply refused to answer anything less than a proper threat. 

This is what Geralt was counting on exploiting. While the two of them did nothing much at all, Jaime and Ser Oswell were busy fighting as though a melee was on. Youth and speed against experience and strength. A fierce exchange of sword and shield strikes and blocks one would be forgiven to think them lost in a battle frenzy. Jaime smirking and breaking off the engagement, deftly zipping under a sword swing to attack Ser Arthur, proved otherwise. The Dornishman moved to stop him only to stiffen when Geralt attacked next, forcing him to break from his sworn brothers back. 

If Ser Oswell was deterred by this, he didn't show this, grimly smiling even as he realized he'd been fooled. Geralt switched the weight and momentum of his swing intended for Arthur and attacked the knight of Whent once more. 

"Don't let that happen at Harrenhal," Geralt grunted. "Wraiths love to goad you into overplaying your hand."

"Aye, I'll not!"

For the next half hour, Geralt and Jaime both took turns making sure he did. On and on they fought, the attackers switching between prey, falling silent or immobile only to reposition and strike again. The sun was setting as the final exercise in the Tower of the Hand came to a halt. Most of the combatants were decently tired, Geralt's constitution serving him the best of them all. As always, Ser Oswell produced a cask of wine for them to enjoy. They sat in amicable silence at the steps of the terrace, their various weapons settled within reach. 

"Finally leaving the Red Keep," Geralt commented after a while, savoring the fine booze's aftertaste. "Feels like a lifetime since I've been outside castle walls."

"The weather has been good to us this year," Ser Arthur said. "Long, summer-like days, warm breezes..."

"Let's hope it doesn't take a turn for the worse, although," Ser Oswell's lip curled. "Home would look like arse even if you plopped it in the middle of the Reach."

"Or the westerlands," Jaime smiled, taking a good swing from the cask. "Mayhaps if we liberate Harrenhal, we could go there next? I've heard stories about Tarbeck Hall being haunted ever since my father was through with it."

"One curse at a time," Geralt replied, taking the cask. "And don't drink too much of that. The three of you still need to practice after I've gone."

"Exercising that elvish of yours, no offense Geralt, all of it sounds like someone choking on a bone to me."

"None taken," The Witcher smiled, imagining many an appalled Elf's expression at Ser Oswell's words. With a final swing of the cask, Geralt took it and his own possessions and made his way for the door. Ser Oswell made a noise of protest about the wine being snatched away but otherwise did nothing to stop it. 

"Make sure they don't get into trouble, will you?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Jaime answered, the past week of near-constant training in the presence of the Kingsguard loosening his tongue. Or maybe that was from the alcohol. 

"I was talking to Ser Arthur."

"Very amusing," Jaime replied with a ton drier than the Korath desert. "It's a wonder you need a sword at all, much less two, with such razor-sharp wit."

"It's all I need to win some fights. I'd rather avoid wasting good steel or silver," Glancing at the opposite end of the room, Jaime took the riposte with a smile, while the Kingsguard snorted or laughed. With a wave, Geralt bade them farewell and began the trek over to the Grand Maester. 

* * *

Jaime climbed down up his chambers tired, and sore. His knees ached incessantly with every step, his legs almost hung at his sides, and he smelled like horses balls. It was the best kind of fatigue, one acquired through unceasing sword practice, backed by the elation of a good day's work and sense of self-satisfaction. It didn't hurt his sparring partners, mentors, and in some cases, apprentices were the finest he could ask for. Always keeping him and one another ready for more, always pushing themselves and accepting of a jest. 

He was almost saddened to know their training would lessen in the coming days. Their journey to Harrenhal, while not pressed for time, would be made up of riding on horseback and taking breaks for sleeping, eating, and drinking. Opportunities to spar would be infrequent, lest their traveling becomes too slowed down. Still, the company was an interesting one, and being able to ride with them alone, chosen for this task was an honor he would never forget. In ways he could never have foreseen, his great hope about the Red Keep came true: it was the best time of his life.

The thought brought a smile to his face, content despite his weary body. It didn't hurt Father, and Cersei already feasted with him in the early afternoon, leaving him the entire evening to simply take off his boots and fall on his welcoming bed. Simply imagining those soft cushions and freshly cleaned sheets was enough to bolster his strength and make the final steps a great deal easier. 

Yet, the moment Jaime opened the door, his body froze, and his sharpened instincts warned him something was amiss. All thoughts of sleep, rest, and weariness vanished at a moment's notice, he was not alone in the room. The fact his hanging had been lowered said as much. Before he could turn to the guard or draw his recently forged silver sword, the hangings parted, and from the crack, emerged Cersei. 

Before he could do much more than stare like a simpleton, his dear sister smiled sweetly in a way he hadn't seen much recently. She pressed a single finger to her lips for silence, then waved a hand for him to shut the door. Jaime regained enough sense to do both and to run a thousand questions through his head. What was she doing there, had she gone mad, did the guards see her? All of these and many more came and went unquestioned. When he turned around, Jaime's mind went blank all over again. 

In the scant moments he turned around, Cersei rose from the bed and stood before him in all her naked splendor. Her golden locks glowed in the candlelight, her eyes were full of want, and her smile equal parts predatory and enrapturing. 

"I know we've not spoken well in each other's company of late," She said, walking in such a way as to emphasize her hips, those, and so much more. The only piece of clothing, a Lannister necklace, accentuated her enticing breasts, coming ever closer. "But it does not have to be so, not when you're leaving me again tomorrow."

Slowly, her arms rose and entwined around his neck, her body pressing against his. There was only the faintest of perfumes on her, the smell alone doing things to him.

"Come, let us do what we've both wanted for so long."

And she was right, they did want this, ever since they were children. Before the servant informed their mother and forced them to separate ends of the castle. Even then, as a boy still green with a sword, who knew nothing of love and taking a woman, Jaime knew Cersei was the only one for him. No one knew him like she, none could make him feel what he did. Leave him sleepless and intoxicated at the mere thought of touching her soft skin, running his fingers through her hair. One of his few regrets since arriving at the Red Keep, for a time, was not being able to take her. Or rather, becoming less willing to.

Even as she closed the distance, capturing his lips in hers and giving herself into pure want, Jaime stood there, stiff... And afraid. The conversation on incest with Geralt many, many weeks past, was never too far from his mind. The fact Father and Mother both, mere cousins, may have caused their children to think this way, that their last born son was broken forever from it. No, that wasn't all that kept him from returning the embrace, it was Geralt himself. He spoke of the mere act of incest with disgust, revulsion, not even holding the Targaryens above it. If anything, he found them quite appalling for the practice. 

And he was sharp, impossibly observant. He'd seen right through Jaime in scarcely an afternoon and knew precisely where and how to bring him down to reality. He would notice something amiss, Jaime knew this to be true. They were to spend the next days together, sooner rather than later, Geralt would take him aside and ask him what troubled him. Could Jaime keep bedding his own sister from him? Perhaps he could fumble through some lies and half-truths until Geralt left the matter alone. The thought almost broke his restraint.

And yet, Jaime could not budge. He could stomach keeping this part of himself a secret from Geralt, so long as it remained an idle fantasy never partook in. But after it was no longer mere reverie, becoming something real, something a man of his keen senses would pick up on... All it would take for him to know the truth was to be in the same room as Jaime and Cersei for a few minutes. An invitation from Father to join them at dinner after they return from Harrenhal. Try as he might, Jaime could no stop himself from imaging such an occasion... The look of sheer disappointment and many other worse things alone in his mind was like running himself through with a sword. 

"... Cersei..." His voice came out rough, strained. "... We can't...."

She blinked at him, want replaced by stunned confusion. "Can't... What do you mean-"

"We can't go through with this," He responded with more resolve, settling himself down with the breathing exercises from Geralt. "Mother was... Right to separate us, she knew nothing good would come from us pursuing this."

Cersei said nothing, staring at him until somehow, she smiled and then giggled. It seemed to take all her strength to keep herself quiet. She didn't believe him, thinking it was some game he was playing on her. The thought set a fire in his chest that spurned his insistence onward. 

"This is not a jape!" Jaime whispered forcefully, hoping the severity of his voice would help her see reason. "We cannot do this, and we will not, do you understand me?!"

Her giggling ceased, and when she looked at him again, all humor vanished. "You're serious," Cersei spoke as though he'd grown another head. Already, her beautiful features began to contort from a smile capable of starting a war to something far, far uglier. "You're truly refusing me? After all these years of waiting...? Now, when I am offering myself to you in a way we've both yearned for?!"

".... Things have changed," Jaime answered, feeling a horrible ache stir in the back of his head. 

"... Is this because of Lysa Tully?!" Cersei all but snarled her face inches from his. Jaime's body stiffened again, not from surprise but from the possibility she could strike him. "Did that trout fucking little whore put herself between us?!"

Once Jaime may have laughed at the thought, it still amused him privately. But it would not do this time, if he intended to impart to Cersei the severity of the situation, old habits had no place. 

"This has nothing to do with the Tully girl," Jaime steely told her. He barely even remembered what his wife to be looked like. "It is only between the two of us and how our relationship... It will do neither of us any good, Cersei. We are not Targaryens, we do not and should not do what you wish us to. We're brother and sister-"

"No, we are not mere siblings," She hissed, scowling with a curled lip that removed all of her beauty entirely. "We are one, you and I. We came into this world together, we grew in our mother's womb together... Jaime... We are parts of the same whole, you cannot reject me any more than you could remove your own sword hand."

Cersei moved closer to him again, calming herself, hoping the gesture would weaken him. Jaime breathed harder and, with a hand to her left shoulder, kept her at bay. Even as the effort threatened to drain his already spent strength.

"No."

The fury took over her, and the inevitable smack to his cheek came. Only this time, Jaime was swift enough to catch it. The movement surprised her, and even tired, he could hold her in place. Then, leaning closer, Jaime tried to capture the same look on Geralt's face. The expression when he'd revealed his collection of scars and shattered Jaime's foolish notions of glory and pride. 

"I said no," Cersei's eyes grew with shock and fear at his voice, her strength leaving her. "You and I are brother and sister, nothing more. And if we have to become even less to stop us from making a terrible mistake... Then so be it, Father will hear of it."

"Y-You wouldn't dare-"

"Wouldn't I?" He smiled. It was an ugly one judging by how she seemed to shrink at the sight of it. "You were certain I would never refuse you, yet I am. It is plain you do not know me, not anymore. What we both know, however, is this: Father will punish one of us more for these near follies. Who do you think will get the worse of it, I wonder?"

Cersei's palling face said it all when he let go of her hand, Jaime knew she would not strike him again. Wordlessly, she walked back to the bed and collected her discarded robes from it. Once she was clothed, Cersei walked to the door, sending a single look at him filled with poison before opening the door and slamming it on the way out. Once she left, Jaime walked to the nearest chair and fall on top of it, not trusting his legs to hold out anymore. 

Father would hear of this, without question. Cersei most likely used Lannister gold to bribe his own men to let her in at this hour, without his leave. Stupidly believing gold could withstand but a single, stern glance from Tywin Lannister. It was a foolish plan, short-sighted and ill-conceived. Only his sister could think it would work. Would Father ask of it immediately? No, the journey to Harrenhal awaited, and Jaime needed his rest. That gave him time to think of a reasonable enough lie to avoid whatever disaster Cersei might bring upon them. The guards would not speak either, not to anyone but their liege lord. 

But more than a few eyes were sure to find Cersei furiously crossing through the Tower back to her own chambers. And there were other ways to loosen a man's tongue than with just gold or fear, as Father told him many times. Jaime sighed, the headache growing more terrible the further he considered the many ways this could come back to bite them in the arse. With some final effort, he removed his boots and made it to his bed, and hoped he did not dream of monsters this night.

* * *

"Vort aep taedh... Vort aep taedh..."

"Speak taedh more softly. It'll help with the last parts pronunciation."

"Vort aep taedh d'yaebl... Vort aep taedh d'yaebl!"

"Perfect," Geralt smiled toasting to the Grand Maester sitting across from him. "Keep this up, my friend, and you'll be chatting with the elves as one of their own."

"A conversation enjoyed only by myself, from your own words on elven, human relations," The Grand Maester returned the gesture, partaking in some alcohol to parch his dried throat. Night had fallen well over two hours ago, covering much of his office in darkness. The parts that weren't, illuminated by candlelight, gave the impression of visiting a library or laboratory when no one was supposed to. Geralt liked it, particularly the fact no nosy spy was intruding on them this evening. 

"Not all elves hold grudges, the crafter of my swords, Éibhear Hattori, would gladly speak to you. Although, much of it would be about blacksmithing."

"But a few moons ago, I'd never thought I would learn of magic, monsters and a great many other things, why not add blacksmithing to the list?"

"Life does enjoy throwing many surprises at us," Geralt said, leaning back into the chair and gazing at the stars twinkling through the nearest window. "Sometimes, the surprise grows day by day."

His tone faltered Pycelle's smile, the Maester put his cup aside and looked at him with concern. "So, it is true then, what you've suspected since the first Yrden casting?"

"It is," Geralt said with an exhale, remembering the many late nights and early mornings spent meditating. Opening his meager perceptions of the power to the world around him, trying to prove a hunch and quell a fear. Time and again, he tested this with various Signs in the privacy of his own chamber. The differences were minute, but they were present. Comparing what he could do now to when he'd first arrived, there was little room for doubt. "Magic is growing stronger, Pycelle. Little by little. Before, I could scarcely produce more than a fart of wind without considerable concentration and time. Now? I could throw a grown man in full plate on his ass with but a wave of my hand."

Geralt set the drink aside and looked back at Pycelle, the older man meeting his eyes with a thoughtful look. "We'll have to provoke the wraiths holding the curse, and with the power growing, the side effect of this will be far more dangerous than I initially thought. We'll have to evacuate the castle."

"Lord Whent will not do so lightly, even under more... Mundane crises, abandoning such a place is done only under dire circumstances. Even Ser Arthur's reputation and Ser Oswell's word may not be enough."

"Which is why I've come up with an idea or two to show him, and everyone else there, that magic is quite real."

"Something I've seen before, mayhaps?" Pycelle smiled conspiratorially.

"Maybe," Geralt smirked. "As I said, I'm keeping my options open. There's still time to find an answer, we won't be reaching Harrenhal tomorrow after all."

"... I know not of this will ease or add to your burden, however," The Grand Maester rose sharply from his seat, darting to one of the smaller desks along the north side of the room. With some effort, he lifted a chest and brought it over to Geralt. "I believe it will still serve our purposes well."

"So, you're finally showing me what's inside," Geralt smiled, getting on his feet and running a hand along the length of the chest. "I was wondering when you'd do it, my medallion's been twitching incessantly."

"My apologies, but it is not often I take you by surprise after all, not in matters such as these." With a key produced from a chain of dozens, Pycelle opened the chest with deliberate slowness and revealed what was inside. When Geralt laid eyes on the contents, he couldn't stop but stare.

"Holy shit... " He said after a while, reaching into the chest once Pycelle gave him an approving nod. "How did you...?"

"Convince the king to part with it?" The Grand Maester let out a shaky laugh, a bead of sweat-producing itself across his brow. "It was not an easy task, much of my morning was spent convincing His Grace of why it was imperative to the curse-breaking process. You did say we would require suitable bait to lure the wraiths out, after all?"

"That I did..." Geralt said, hefting the lure in his hand, his medallion's vibrations intensifying from the proximity. The Witcher was indeed unsure of what to think of this, once the surprise was dulled. What he held would help and potentially doom them in equal measure. "One thing's for sure, this will definitely piss off Harren like almost nothing else."

* * *

The party out to see them off was small. The sun was yet to even fully rise, and much of the castle and city remained asleep. Their horses had already been prepared for them, fully stocked, and checked with all they would require. There was food enough for the entire journey and then some, a sizable sum of coin for any additional needs, places for books, to carry equipment on four young, strong stallions. Some of the best in the entire castle, as Aerys promised. The king and much of the small council refrained from being present, however, with some exceptions. Varys and Tywin were both in the courtyard, talking with Pycelle and Jaime, respectively. Geralt stayed with the knights, the two accompanying him and Sers Jonothor and Luwyn.

"Keep an eye on them, eh, Geralt?" Ser Luwyn asked, smiling, and patting Oswell's shoulder. "Particularly this one, the Red Keep will not be the same without his gallows humor."

"Aye," Ser Jonothor said. "Though, mayhaps we'll enjoy fewer bruises for a change."

"It's not my fault you can't avoid a sword strike for shit," Oswell laughed, clapping hands with both of them. 

"If it makes you feel any better, brother," Ser Arthur said, smiling. "It's likely we'll be the ones suffering for a change."

"You can be sure we'll climb many an insufferably tall tower before its over," Geralt drily replied, earning laughs from the assembled men. While the men spoke on, he listened in on Tywin and Jaime's conversation.

"Remember all you have learned," The Lord Hand said with his usual tone of voice, keeping a respectful distance from Jaime. "Let it guide your blade to a killing stroke, and let it keep you alive."

"Yes, Father," Jaime bowed, voice resolute and respectful. "I swear, I will not fail you."

Though he did not embrace the boy, or even shake his hand, from a cursory glance, Geralt could swear Tywin graced the boy with something akin to a smile. 

"I know, now, off with you, Harrenhal awaits."

Dislodging himself from the Kingsguard, Geralt approached Pycelle and Varys next. The two of them had passed the time discussing small council matters. 

"Ah, Master Geralt," The Spider said with enthusiasm deceptively genuine, the Witcher's in a double handshake. "We've not spoken much since you've been excused from dinners with the king. All the same, I wish you and your company great success on the road ahead."

"Thank you, Lord Varys," Geralt said, his grip just a bit tighter than necessary. "Regardless of what happens, I'm sure you'll be the first to know either way."

If it bothered him, the eunuch did not show it, merely bowing his head with a knowing smile. Then, Geralt excused himself from them as well, letting the two return to matters of state, he stopped before Tywin last. The Lord of Lannister stood tall, unmoving with that piercing gaze of his. As always, the Witcher was undeterred by it. 

"Despite all I've learned, from you and Jaime both, I do not... Fully perceive the danger awaiting you, it is of a world foreign to me," He admitted with great, pained reluctance. "Regardless, the danger is great, and that is all I need to know. You've looked after Jaime well so far, Witcher. Do not falter now."

"I won't," Geralt said with utmost honesty. "I'll tear that castle to the ground before I let it claim Jaime or anyone else in my company."

The Lord Hand scrutinized him for a few moments. Then, he nodded his head in approval, even offering his hand to Geralt. "Good luck out there, Geralt."

"Thank you," The Witcher shook it, meaning this as well. With these farewells completed, the company mounted on their horses, Ser Arthur at the front with Geralt behind him, followed by Ser Oswell, then the Grand Maester, and finally Jaime. Before he gave the command to leave, Geralt's eyes swept across the battlements and spotted a figure watching them from afar. A young man with silver hair flowing in the early morning wind. Rhaegar waved his farewell to them and then vanished from sight, back into the depths of the castle.

"Shall we?" Ser Arthur asked, bringing Geralt's attention back to the matter at hand.

"Yes, let's ride."


	18. Chapter 18

Their journey to Harrenhal passed pleasantly and without incident. They exited King's Landing through the northern, Dragon Gate, crossing through a vast expanse of healthy, and thick green forests interspersed with vast, plentiful, neatly tended fields and orchards as far as the eye could see. Crops, fruits, vegetables grew aplenty in the summer sun, herds of beasts protected and guided by their owners. The weather was as Arthur said, warm enough to be pleasant without being unbearable, tempered by an ever so slight breeze, cooling breeze. It reminded Geralt of the fields just outside Novigrad, only these stretched on for miles and miles.

The peasantry toiling the fields, often accompanied by women and children, frequently stopped and gazed at the Hanse. Men courteously bowed to the Kingsguard, others to Geralt who mistook him for the prince, and were answered in kind. Children ran with them for a time, hoping to see them fight or at, the very least, their swords. The smallfolk's fascination and sometimes apprehension with the company continued as they halted at countless villages spanning the northern crownlands for food and shelter. Inn owners aplenty, initially surprised with the appearance of gallant knights and other companions, soon transformed into wonder. 

Aerys had provided them with enough coin to last for weeks on the road, and so they ate well and slept comfortably. In some of these taverns and inns, fellow knights and small lords traveling to and from the capital greeted them. Passing on news from the crownlands and riverlands. A knight of House Wode, Ser Willem, one of the border holdfasts with the Tully lands toasted to Geralt's health upon learning his identity. A cousin of the family was waylaid by the Kingswood Brotherhood and only narrowly escaped with his life. They would end up spending an evening in their wooden holdfast sometime later where a grand feast was held for Kingsguard and friends of House Woode.

When the company wasn't resting in one place or another, they passed the time sharing stories. Some adventures were from youth such as Jaime leaping from the cliffs of Casterly Rock or Arthur Dayne's single, disastrous visit to Braavos after his knighthood at the age of fourteen. As the physically frailest of their group, and long since uncustomed to long horse riding, the Grand Maester benefitted from this distraction in particular. He was also the one who's tale got the heartiest of laughs. How he'd snuck into the chambers of a tyrannical Grand Maester and replaced his schedule list with erotic poetry written by Pycelle and his co-conspirators.

While much of it passed with merriment, Geralt did not let himself or the other forget the task awaiting them. Whenever possible, he kept his training of the other warriors and Pycelle up, making sure they didn't become too lax or comfortable. Or that he didn't either. After their aforementioned feast at the holdfast of House Woode, Geralt and Oswell both stood atop their battlements, scrutinizing their destination from afar long after their companions retired to bed.

"Gods Eye," Ser Oswell spoke, pointing to the massive lake leagues away. It's waters shining in the night from the almost full moon looming in the sky casting down on them. Its reflection was marred by the single island. "And the Isle of Faces. It is said the First Men and children of the forest forged the Pact there, more than 10,000 years ago, ending generations of slaughter."

"The home of the mysterious green men as well, along with their weirwoods," Geralt said, finding his eyes drawn to the isle. "Tell me, does this reclusive order allow for visitors? Besides Addam Velaryon?"

"I've never known a man to do so since, though my brothers and I often dared one another to try."

"What stopped you?"

The Kingsguard went silent and grim, his face only partially illuminated by the moon's light. He did not speak for a while, as if to find the right words. "Truth be told... I do not know. Every time the madness to see the dare through to the end took me, a glimpse at that place struck it down... There is something about it, Geralt. It is an old place, untouched for millennia, overrun with weirwoods. I need not tell you what a poor impression Harrenhal's left on me... To be amongst dozens or hundreds of such trees..."

He shuddered as though a cold chill ran through the otherwise warm air. Geralt knew from Oswell's recollection, their weirwood was a ghastly thing, it's carved face contorted into an open-mouthed scream of pure hatred. Very, very few in the castle dared to approach it then and now, save Oswell's second cousin and good-sister, the Lady of Harrenhal, Shella Whent. 

"We Andals tried to destroy them thousands of years ago," Oswell calmed down, sounding almost like his usual self. "And I do not doubt such a group would lack a long memory. Do you think we'll need their counsel on this matter?"

"That depends on what we find there. I've read much of these weirwoods, as much as Pycelle could give me. Many a tale speaks of their magic capabilities, how they were specially carved with forgotten techniques by these children of the forest. The largest concentration of them was on the northern shore of the lake, and it is known Harrenhal cut down all but one for rafters and support beams. Call me paranoid, but I don't think that a coincidence at all."

"Geralt, my friend," He chuckled, giving the Witcher slap on the shoulder. "In matters such as these, I'll gladly take a paranoid man over a lax one."

Over the next several days, they made their way through the holdings of House Whent, green, fertile land, and sunlit fields interspersed with a myriad of holdfasts. The lake to their left glimmered in the welcoming summer sun, shifting its colors from crystal blue to leafy green. Geralt observed the weirwoods closely as he could. Their red leaves and bone-white wood forming an image that would've been striking to see anywhere. 

He could not, however, see the faces carved into them or spot anything move amidst them. A faint mist surrounded the place, Geralt's heightened vision could not pierce through it entirely. The shadows between the thick weirwood growth were also thick, so much so the sunlight from above could not cut through them. The Witcher silently agreed with Ser Oswell's assessment, just gazing upon the place brought forth words like old, and foreboding to mind. A place of true wilderness where men seldom came and, those who did were changed by doing so. The fact Geralt distinctly felt... Something watch him back from those obscured shores only magnified his curiosity. 

It was still a more pleasant sight to gaze upon than Harrenhal.

It's five towers loomed over them for leagues upon leagues, as gargantuan as they were bent and ravaged. The fact they were so clearly visible, yet the castle walls proper weren't until the last day of approach, was a testament to their size. Geralt had memorized all of their names, and which was which. His eyes lay fixed upon the Kingspyre Tower most of all, the residence of Harren the Black, where Aegon and Balerion fed him and his entire family to dragonfire nearly three centuries past. The topmost portion of it was completely melted away, leaving the eastern side exposed. The Witcher's old knee injury almost ached anew at the merest thought of climbing up the damned thing.

"Ser Oswell," Jaime said, staring at it with no small dread himself. "D-Does your family perhaps have some means of... Hastening one's ascent up the towers?"

"Aye, a strong pair of legs, patience stronger than Valyrian steel and mayhaps a wine cask should all else fail."

Jaime kept a respectful silence, even as Geralt could practically hear him some curse Harren to all of their hells. Ser Arthur merely sighed, shaking his head. Their discomfort palled next to the Grand Maester's who visibly palled and stared wide-eyed. 

"Have no fear," Geralt said. "I don't intend for us to do the ritual from there up, fighting atop one collapsing tower is more than enough for me."

Yet even as color returned to Pycelle's face, and the rest of the group seemed to find ease in his words, Geralt wasn't as sure as he sounded. Witcher work was dangerous and prone to complications if something went awry, and they didn't act quickly enough, climbing up that overcompensating piece of detestable rock might be the least of their worries. 

In the early afternoon, during the final approach, a ten-man group of household guards arrived to escort them, more as a courtesy than a necessity. Oswell greeted the men warmly, introducing the rest of their Hanse in turn. Many of the soldiers stared at Geralt with surprise and wariness. His looks were far from pleasant already, and brooding on the castle must've made his appearance that much less appealing. He courteously bowed his head and spent the final stretch of the ride in silence, letting Oswell primarily do the talking. 

His entire family was already assembled at the castle, waiting to welcome him and the company in the main yard. The grand preparations for the upcoming tourney were still underway, with many rooms, chambers, and even halls once abandoned restored to a livable condition. Geralt thought they must have found a sorceress or twenty for such a task, Harrenhal only grew more monstrous the closer they got. Atop one of the taller, rolling hills littering the grounds outside the castle, the urge to curse was strong indeed. 

Harrenhal went on and on northward almost as far as the eye could see. He'd visited fiefdoms and lands of lords and even kings that didn't cover as much ground as the ruinous monument to some vicious fool's ego. It must have sprawled across hundreds of acres of land. The curtain walls' enormity only became apparent once they rode closer. They put many natural mountain cliffsides to shame, so gargantuan in-fact, up close, it was impossible to see any rest of the castle save for the five towers looming even above the battlements. It was difficult to even see the men stationed atop the ramparts.

The closer they got, the more his medallion shook under his leather jacket, irritating his skin. Even without it, however, the Witcher would be able to tell magic very present. Once they rode into the main gatehouse, it was as though they'd entered another world through an invisible threshold. The power was thick in the air, the ground, and even the very fissured stone. Most of it was Balerion's, frighteningly similar to the magic contained within the dragon skulls of his species, only far more powerful. That was a detail he would keep from Aerys even under pain of death.

Even those unfamiliar with magic or unable to perceive it felt its effects. A sudden and unpleasant thickness was in the air, followed by an unwelcome heat growth. Pycelle almost immediately reached for a cask of wine and downed quite a bit of it. Plenty in the group did the same, noticeably breaking into sweats. 

"Seven hells Lyonel," Oswell huffed, hair already sticking to his brow. "I've never known the castle to roast a man like this."

"Aye, it is strange, ser," The captain of the guard retorted. "For the last two weeks, it feels as though a great hearth burns across the length of it. Even night offers but scant respite. Mad as I may sound, I'd not mind a bit of winter to befall us."

The other power hanging in the air must have made finding release even more daunting. Unlike Balerion's leftover magic, this did not affect the physical world. It was a poison of the mind. It was the heightening of a feeling Geralt had long since learned to stomach and overcome. A sense of discomfort, growing unease when one came to an unwelcoming place, where you could never rest, where the persistent threat of some unknowable danger gnawed at you. Almost immediately, the Witcher felt the slimy tendrils of this sensation coil about them all. Arthur rode to Geralt's right, and with a single, severe look from the Witcher, received confirmation of the existence of the curse. The Dornishmen's eyes momentarily widened, a passing fear on his face before he imperceptibly nodded and steeled himself.

Soon enough, they exited from the inner gatehouse entrance and found themselves in a yard as vast as the godswood of King's Landing. Stables were to their immediate right, with slate roofs and the capacity to house hundreds of horses, at the very least. Smithies, barracks, and kennels larger than minor lords entire holdfasts littered the yard in many sides, along with a single sept which stuck out from its surrounding. If the outer walls surpassed a hundred something feet, the inner walls were twice that size.

A group of men at arms, servants, and members of the nobility awaited the company near the main entrance leading into the castle. Even with so many of them assembled, Geralt found them a strangely pitying sight amidst the general overbearing emptiness to the rest of the place. They all dismounted, with Oswell being the first off his horse. 

"My lord," He said, bowing with all the required formality for a scant few heartbeats before he and Lord Walter laughed and embraced each other. Soon enough, the rest of the family followed suit, joyously embracing their usually absent brother and uncle as though a hundred years had passed since his last visit and not merely one. The Hanse stayed at the sides, watching the sight with polite smiles and awaiting their turn for the necessary introductions. Even Geralt felt the tension of Harrenhal ease at the sight of familial joy.

It lasted too briefly, however. Oswell bade them step forward, and so they did in order of Arthur, Pycelle, Jaime, and Geralt last. Already, many of those present stared quite brazenly at him, some with fear, others with excitement, and quite a few mixing the two emotions and everything in-between them. The one who most intently gazed upon him was a graceful lady who's greying hair was tied into a braid to Lord Walter's immediate right in the family lined from oldest to youngest. Shella Whent's expression was strange, equal parts haunted and... Relieved? 

"First brother, I believe you know my second," Oswell chuckled, as he and Lord Walter approached Arthur Dayne. The Dornishmen smiled and bowed politely. "Though he surpasses you in swordsmanship, you remain unsurpassed as my greatest pain in the arse."

"I'm sure Ser Arthur feels the same of your troublesome ways," Lord Walter laughed, shaking the Kingsguard's hand. 

"Truth be told, I need not do anything at all," Arthur smiled. "Ser Lewyn answer's Ser Oswell blow for blow for both us Dornishmen."

"A pity he did not ride with you then, I'd much like to see that for myself." The group laughed politely as Lord Walter moved to Pycelle. "Grand Maester, I've seen you around the court, yet I do not believe we've had the chance to speak until now...?"

"Indeed we have not," Pycelle shook his hand, looking profoundly relieved to be off his saddle. "But it is never too late to correct some mistakes."

"I couldn't agree more, and this is Jaime Lannister! How are you lad, it's been some years since we crossed paths at Riverrun. As I recall, you and Ser Brynden were all but inseparable during the stay."

"The Blackfish has a talent for stories, and I've an ear for them," Jaime accepted the offered hand, smiling brightly. The lone daughter of House Whent, and current queen of love and beauty, Maris Whent, couldn't keep her eyes off him. Geralt knew the expression quite well and silently vowed to make sure looks and smiles were as far as it went. 

At last came his turn to speak with Lord Whent, a man near as tall yet half as broad as his brother. By Oswell's own words, there was but five years difference between them. If Geralt hadn't known that, he would've sworn it was closer to ten or more. Unlike Oswell who's receding hair kept its color, Walter Whent was almost entirely white-haired with only flecks of gray. Thick lines of aging were around his eyes, making him look tired and weary even as his eyes and well-kept teeth shone brightly. It was a strange toll taken on Walter and Shella both. 

"And last but certainly not least, this is Master Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher whom I wrote to you of and leader of our party," Lord Walter stood there, gazing into Geralt's eyes and required a moment to gather his wits. The Witcher's scrutinizing gaze again made him look more fearsome and strange. Or perhaps he was merely curious how a stranger from faraway lands superseded the Kingsguard in the party, and what role he played in their presence here. "You and many others may know him as the Kingswood Knight, destroyer of the Brotherhood and rescuer of Princess Elia!"

"Just Geralt is fine," He said, smiling and bowing his head low in deference. "It's an honor to meet you, Lord Whent, Ser Oswell has told us many good things about you."

"... And no small part of ill things as well, I'd wager," Lord Walter said eventually, doing an admirable job of not looking or sounding unnerved. Geralt chuckled at they shook hands, the Lord's grip was firm and steady. "I jest, of course, welcome, Master Geralt, to Harrenhal! May your stay be pleasant and my Houses hospitality to your liking."

Geralt bowed his head again, not trusting his tongue to withhold a hint of scorn or sarcasm at the notion of finding hospitality here. For a while longer, the group was introduced to the remainder of the Whent family. Lord Shella recovered herself, showing little to any great interest in the Witcher. Though, he swore he could feel her eyes following after him as they, at last, entered the castle.

Stepping through the main gate was like voluntarily shoving one's mouth into the maw of some great beast. The slimy tendrils sensation causing every fiber of Geralt's being to stiffen in anticipation of some attack or danger was magnified, the heat from Balerion's power seemed to radiate from the thick walls all around them, like hundreds of thousands of small hearths all aflame at once. And yet, there was something else present as well, a faint, third power much older and different from the rest. 

Every so often, the heat would falter to almost nothing as they passed through one cavernous hallway and into another. As though something was keeping Balerion's leftover magic entirely at bay. This third sensation, it reminded Geralt somewhat of the power from the godswood, was this the weirwood trees doing, even centuries after being pulled from the earth and carved into rafters and beams? Or was the single standing weirwood at the heart of this power? Geralt would inquire into that once the necessary courtesies were done with. 

Each member of the party was given their own chambers next to one another. Geralt thought this unnecessary almost immediately upon entering his own. The room was near the size of Tywin's and his solar combined, with plenty of empty space left over for a group of men to practice swordsmanship. As with the hallways, the walls were thick and blackened, the ceiling so high Geralt could not see it. Lord Walter's renovations, if any were done in this part of the castle, were unnoticeable. Or perhaps the lack of any gaping holes save for the man-sized window was the proof. 

The Witcher was no stranger to residing in ruined castles, Kaer Morhen's best days were long since behind it. Possibly, it was the fondness he held for the place that clouded his judgment of it, but even with its sorted past, the old fortress of the Witcher's never made him feel so thoroughly unwelcome. Worse, it reminded him of the storeroom Aryan La Valette led him to during their escape, a place ready to explode when the first match was lit. If the castle was abandoned, this wouldn't present an issue, a Witcher's work was rarely that kind or simple, however.

A knock came from the door, and from the rattling of chain links, Geralt knew it to be the others. He also noted the lack of anyone else listening in on their conversation, anyone alive, at any rate. 

"My brother says servants will be upon us soon, no doubt to pretty us up for the feast. Arthur says you've learned something, Geralt. Tell us."

And so he did, recounting the three powers he'd sensed throughout the castle and even outside its walls. Revealing his quivering medallion for all to see was the proof they needed. 

"I won't say with finality yet, not until I've covered more of the castle's ground, but an evacuation of this place before we proceed with the curse-breaking seems more unavoidable with each passing moment."

"Abandoning's one's seat is not a thing to be done easily, Geralt," Ser Arthur said. "Even under the gravest of sieges, to leave one's place of power is considered a grievous loss. Though, I suspect you ready to say they're already under siege."

"They are," Geralt replied gravely, looking to Oswell. "I don't know if you're brothers had health issues, but his appearance is not normal. He looks closer to an aged uncle of yours then a brother only five years your senior."

"...Aye, you've the right of that," Oswell sighed, resting a hand upon the pommel of his sword. "I returned to this place a year ago, and though his hair grayed, he was not the man you see before you."

"Ser Oswell speaks true," Jaime replied. "When we crossed paths at Riverrun, Lord Whent looked well. Quite a bit stronger and more able than men half his age I would say."

"And what of your good-sister? Lady Shella's expression upon my arrival was strange... As though I were some phantom she'd seen before come to life."

"Shella has always been... A stranger woman than most. Harrenhal has bothered her for as long as I can remember, though she never experienced a wraith encounter as I have, to my knowledge at least. She is also a devout woman, though as the years have gone by, her interests in the gods have... Changed," A shiver seemed to run through Oswell's body. "Last I was here, she'd begun to spend much time in the godswood, before that accursed tree."

"It may be this has shielded her," Pycelle said, running a hand through his beard. "You yourself said, Geralt, that the weirwood is repelling these other powers. Mayhaps, Lady Shella is less affected by the curse?"

"If my current assumptions are correct, yes," The Witcher had thought of this as well. He was no man of faith, and so doubting godly protection came naturally to him. All the same, men and women of faith had performed more incredible feats than merely protecting the user from malevolent forces before. It could not be readily discarded as a possibility. "We'll learn more in the coming days, and I hope that some of it turns out to be for the better."

"And if it does not, convincing Walter to leave will be no small task. My brother is a generous man, and not quick to dismiss a great many things. But long he has doubted the curse, and many a time come to blows with Shella on Harrenhal being a foul place."

"He'll be convinced soon enough once Arthur and I do what we have to."

"So it comes to that, again," The Dornishmen smiled, giving Geralt a knowing look. "Very well then, though I hope not to be flung to the ground a second time."

"Don't worry," The Witcher smiled back. "The only thing I intend to toss aside is Lord Whent's doubts about the curse."

Outside the door, the footfalls of many men and women could be heard, opening one chamber after another only to find no one inside. Eventually, they came to Geralt's. 

"Lord Whent sends us, my lords," A comely, older woman said, bowing alongside two others while the rest waited in the hallway outside. "We're to help you in preparing for the dinner."

"You heard the lady, my companions," Geralt said, tossing his bandolier to the nearby bed. "We've a feast to get ready for."


	19. Chapter 19

The Hall of a Thousand Hearths was only somewhat of an exaggeration. By Oswell's own words, there were but thirty-five. From the two that were lit near the entrance of the Great Hall, it may as well have been twenty. Each one was wide enough to serve as the bed-chamber of a lesser castle and taller than most trees outside of Brokilon Geralt had seen. The flames rose high, their intensity sending the warm air into the realm of unpleasantly hot. The Witcher idly wondered how much firewood was wasted bringing them to life, most likely enough to keep a small village alive through an ordinary winter.

The Great Hall itself was a monstrosity of architecture. Even with his eyes adjusted to the dark in ways beyond those of ordinary, Geralt could not even see the shrouded ceiling. Or far past the edges of the hearths lights. Were it not for the fires, there was no chance he could even begin to guess where the walls were. He had read about the Great Council held within these walls and the upcoming tournament which lords and knights from across the realm were to attend. There was no doubt there'd still be room aplenty leftover once they all settled in.

A testament to the absolute absurdity of the castle's construction was where the dinner table was situated. Back home or in King's Landing, they were placed somewhere in the middle of the hall. Or if there were multiple tables, the one with the host family was on the far side. This one was placed a short walk away from the entrance. Something which would look comical were the rest of the hall not covered in thick, almost impenetrable shadows. He could all but hear Dandelion compose a ballad about them or Hearths of Hell, and for once, Geralt wouldn't find the exaggeration unwarranted.

The absence of their weapons didn't help to put him in any ease, not that most present at the table seemed to notice. Lord Whent, as per his station, sat at its head. Though his appearance remained aged beyond his years, the occasion of hosting esteemed guests brought endless mirth to every action. His smile was ceaseless, and his laughter an equal match to Oswell, who sat to his immediate left. The rest of House Whent was seated on the right side of the table. Lady Shella took a more reserved but tactful approach to her husband. The fact she struggled not to look at Geralt's general direction wasn't lost on him.

Arthur sat to Oswell's right, engaged in stories of adventure and swordcraft with either Lord Whent or his oldest sons seated to the right of their mother. Pycelle kept to himself, sitting between Jaime and Arthur. A man of text and literature, even a Grand Maester, wasn't of much interest beyond mandatory courtesies. Particularly in the company of knights, a squire, and a strange man from afar. Maris Whent, as expected, took every opportunity to converse with Jaime, who sat opposite of her, to Geralt's immediate right. Her smile was as unceasing as her fathers, and so was the blush.

Jaime smiled back, exchanging japes and quips with her as the courses came and went. Entertaining Maris with tales of his first melee and excitement at witnessing, perhaps even participating, in the tourney at Harrenhal. In every way, he played the part of the dashing, young squire out of any girl's dreams well. But not too well, Geralt made sure of that before they left for dinner.

"Don't do anything foolish with Maris Whent," He said in the lad's chambers after his cleaning and dressing were finished. As expected, he wore a doublet with the colors of House Lannister. Jaime stared at him as though he'd grown another head. "What's with that look? You hadn't noticed the way she stared at you as though you were the Warrior come to life?"

"Of course, I noticed. I'm merely surprised you'd think I would do anything about it."

"I was your age once. I know what goes through young men's heads when a pretty girl's nearby," Some of his closest friends, probably all of them, would say he wasn't one to talk. Not that Jaime needed to be aware of that. "Be pleasant, polite, even dashing, but nothing more. I don't need another child surprise or to explain how one came to be to your father when we return."

To Geralt's surprise, Jaime didn't seem particularly scolded or annoyed by the order. If anything, he seemed amused, even snorting back a laugh. As though the thought of doing something lustful and forbidden with the queen of love and beauty was a great joke. Under the Witcher's severe gaze, however, he soon wiped the smile from his face and vowed to do as told. Soon enough, as one delicious course of meat came and went, attention was brought to Geralt himself. The second to youngest boy, who glanced meekly at him, eventually worked up the courage to inquire into the Kingswood Brotherhood incident.

Geralt gave a shortened account of it, keeping the specifics concerning portals and such to himself. To the best of his ability, he spoke of how he dispatched the various members, thanks to surprise and superior swordsmanship, until the clash with the Smiling Knight. The back and forth between them, even noting his twisted sense of honor. The boys and men looked at him in rapture, while Maris Whent found the rescue of the princess romantic. Shella Whent remained politely silent.

"Is it true what they say, Master Geralt?" The oldest of the sons, Roland Whent, some years older than Jaime, asked in a tone of childlike wonder. "That you cut the Smiling Knight to a dozen pieces?"

"The tales exaggerate as usual," He answered in a drier voice, reaching for his wine cup and stoping before taking his drink. "It was barely two."

Much laughter followed that particular proclamation, with much of the ruling family asking about Witcher's, Geralt's homelands, and, in particular, tales of strange beasts he hunts. Stories of large insectoids, monsters who fed on the dead, and finally, cursed creatures. Specifically, Vincent Meis, the head of the Vizima city who took vigilante justice as a werewolf. Walter Whent and his older sons found the tale dubious, judging by the looks they sent Geralt's way. The younger children and Maris were more interested if nothing else. Shella Whent paled as the tale continued.

"What happened next, Master Geralt?" Asked the youngest of the four sons, Ben, eyes as wide as a full moon. "Did you hunt him down?"

"In a manner of speaking, truthfully, there was no need to kill Vincent. Though we Witcher's often have to take a life, whenever possible, we prefer to find alternative solutions. Particularly those who are cursed."

Lady Whent's complexion improved, and as she looked at him then, Geralt silently noted the tension ease from her shoulders.

"One particular cure for lycanthropy, or werewolves as they're commonly referred to as is something simple: love. Vincent Meis, as it turns out, had fallen in love with a... Local lady of the night. When all other means failed us, we decided on his being his last hope for a normal life."

"Did it work?" Maris Whent leaned forward, staring at him as though her life depended on the answer. "Please, Master Witcher, tell me it worked?"

"It was successful," He answered truthfully, taking some joy from the smiles and hopeful looks of his most receptive audience members. "Vincent never became a werewolf again, and eventually, he and Carmen were married."

"Oh, what a tale..." Maris leaned back in her seat, delighting in the ending as only a lady could.

"One for the delights of children and fair ladies everywhere," Lord Whent commented, amused though clearly disbelieving. "But only a tale, am I correct, Master Geralt? Strange creatures and animals are one thing, but men transforming into beasts during full moon's? Curses? Come now..."

"Curses are quite real, Lord Whent," Geralt replied, noticing Oswell stir from further up the table. "They can affect men, women, children, even places."

"There's no reason to skirt around the issue anymore, Geralt," Oswell said, a sudden irritation in his voice as he slapped the table. "You've not asked why we've come here yet, though the question has hung over you. To the seven hells with decorum, it's time we speak plainly: the curse of Harrenhal brings us here, brother, and we intend to break it."

Reaction to this proclamation was about what Geralt expected. The youngest grew fearful of mention of curses. The older children glanced at their uncle and parents with confusion and shock. Lady Whent took a deep, silent breath, as though a great weight was soon to leave her shoulders. Lord Walter stared unblinkingly at Oswell. When he looked to the rest of the Hanse and found absolute certainty across all of their faces, his confusion only intensified. The guards stationed nearby rattled in their armor as they tried to discretely glance at each other, or perhaps lean forward to hear more of this.

"Right, you think me mad, perhaps all of us. No, don't say it. I know you better than you think, Walter. You wish proof? Of curses and magic? You'll have it, guards!" He slapped the table again, the force shaking every plate, piece of cutlery, and cup. The sound reverberated through the empty, shadowy hall like an explosion through a cave. "Bring Ser Arthur and Master Geralt their weapons at once, then we shall see who is mad."

Lord Whent recovered from his stunned silence, and at that moment, Geralt could see the man he was before advancing age took its toll. The look of challenge in his eyes was equal to Oswell's, the look that could make a man cower in fear and beg for instantaneous forgiveness. Oswell met it unflinchingly, and wordlessly, the two brothers of House Whent stared each other down. Lady Whent made her move then, placing a hand on her husband's shoulder. The effect took a few more tense moments to finally take hold, but hold it did. Lord Whent's gaze softened, and his fist uncurled itself.

 _Not the first time she's helped ease tension's between them, I'd bet._ Geralt thought, remembering countless tales of sibling rivalries. House Whent was no exception. Oswell had said in not so many words that his family didn't take his first encounter with the supernatural very seriously. _And boys can be cruel about such things, even to their own brothers in youth._

"Men," Lord Whent spoke in a calm voice that brokered no argument, gesturing to two nearby soldiers. "Do as my brother commands, if he has brought proof of... A curse, then I would see it with my own eyes. And speak nothing of this to anyone beyond this hall, I will know if you have."

The two chosen guards paled noticeably and nodded their assent, leaving the hall with no shortage of swiftness to every step. In the tense moments of silence that followed, no one dared speak. The youngest children were naturally confused and frightened, casting glances about the room at the thick shadows all around them. Lord Walter siped his wine, leaning back into his seat in an approximation of sudden indifference. An attitude adopted by his older sons, who failed to refrain from casting curious looks at their uncle, Ser Arthur and Geralt. Minutes later, the two guards returned, swords in hand.

"Shall we, Master Witcher?" Ser Arthur asked with a hint of humor in his voice, rising from his seat.

"Indeed we shall, ser." Geralt answered, reaching the two men first. The twitching of their fingers around the scabbards was unmistakable. As was the less of color in their faces at the close proximity between them. When he reached out for the silver Cat sword, they went as stiff as statues. "My thanks, good men, though I must trouble you to keep one of my swords safe for a while longer."

Unsheathing the blade, Geralt performed a swift series of wrist motions, staring as the runes built into it already began to glow. It was not alone in this regard, for Dawn as well seemed to shimmer in Arthur's hands. Something not missed by the knight of Dorne or everyone observing the display. The two men walked some distance away from the table, putting themselves between it and one of the two hearths, placing the flames to their left.

"I trust I'll not fall to the ground, again?" Arthur inquired. Geralt gave him a small smile.

"No, this time, we strike at the same time, meeting halfway until the same discharge as last time comes to pass."

"They mean to fight?" Maris asked her uncle, trepidation, and curiosity, lacing her voice.

"No, my lady," Pycelle assured him with a warm voice. "Naught, but three blows will come to pass... Perhaps less, given what is already happening to the blades."

"The Grand Maester is correct," Geralt looked to the table, his eyes meeting Lord Whent's. "Which is why I suggest you all hold on to something. Those who can't should distance themselves."

The nearest soldiers already recoiled as if struck, and only a few moments later did they think to ask their lord for permission. Walter Whent, trying his best to appear indifferent, save for the trembling in his hand, gestured for them to leave that portion of the room. Once Geralt and Arthur were a good enough distance away from the others, they took their respective stances. Silent as a long-forgotten grave-yard, the two men stared each other down, their bodies poised and ready to attack at any moment. To an outside observer, it would appear they were there to duel to the death.

In truth, the two men waited until they were perfectly in-tune, weeks of sparring, helping each man to recognize the others tells. A feat made far simpler for Arthur by the purposeful holding back of Geralt. Eyes locked and blades ready, the two men shared imperceptible nods with one another and then, with perfect timing, struck. When their sword met halfway, the reverberating clanking sound of steel against steel was drowned out by a ripple, a shimmering, faint outburst of power from their glowing blades. Geralt felt his medallion bite into the flesh of his chest from the sudden vibration.

Not even looking at the table, the Witcher heard men, women, and children alike sharply breathe in and gasp. As ever, the strange Shella Whent had the most interesting reaction of all.

"Gods be good..." She whispered in pure awe. Her husband remained silent.

 _That won't last for much longer,_ Geralt thought, knowing that Pycelle's assessment of the situation was accurate. Sharing another nod with Arthur, he pulled the sword back, readied himself for another blow, and like a viper, met Dawn halfway once again.

The discharge of power was beyond even his expectations. With no stoking or further enhancing of his own, Geralt watched as the purple and blue colors seemed to swirl about them for an instant until erupting like a titanic burst of Aard. The nearest pillars shook and grumbled around them. The massive flames of the hearth seemed to recoil as a struck child would into its cavernous depths. Pieces of cutlery flew from the table and well above the heads of its occupants. The nearby guards covered and shielded themselves from them as though they were the arrowheads bearing down for killing blows.

Maris Whent shrieked and took cover behind her seat. The second oldest somehow managed to smack his head against the pie before him. The youngest children stared with open mouths even as the wind blew their hands and chubby faces in the opposite direction. Lord Whent seemed to shrink in his seat, eyes almost unnaturally wide as he clenched his left armchair in a death grip. Shella Whent placed a hand before her face, hair flung in every direction as Princess Ellia's was. Mouth trembling and tears in her eyes, the Lady of Harrenhal seemed almost in a world of her own as she stared at what just occurred.

The first to speak and break the thick silence that befell the hall was Oswell.

"Well then, brother," He smiled with a look of satisfaction, placing a hand on Lord Whent's shoulder. The gesture caused his older brother to involuntarily shake in his seat. "I suppose fearing grumpkins and snarks isn't so foolish anymore."

* * *

To no one's surprise, least of Geralt's, Lord Walter's solar was near thrice the size of Aerys' personal feasting hall. Situated in the second-lowest level of the Kingspyre Tower, the Lord of Harrenhal summoned the entire company there once the bewilderment of the demonstration passed. All of the children were sent to their quarters. Under Lord Whent's piercing glare and voice, which brokered no argument and promised severe punishment, all present were sworn to secrecy. This included the guards. The Witcher found it an understandable but ultimately useless order. The castle's inhabitants would know everything soon enough, through gossip or Lord Whent's own mouth.

With each step they took toward the infamous tower where Harren and his entire lineage was snuffed out, the lingering magic intensified. Sometimes, Geralt felt as though he was back in Loc Muinne, finding it difficult to breathe as a heated stone all but burned around him. At other points, the tendrils of the curse seemed more eager than ever to twist about him. Neither power, however, could overcome the resistance of the weirwoods potency. In fact, once they entered the tower itself, situated near the northeastern side of the Hall of a Thousand Hearths, the curse, and Balerion's magic were hardly felt at all.

Oswell mentioned his family had abandoned the upper sections of the castle. Did they subconsciously know or feel the weirwoods resistance? It was, but one more thing to inspect once his report to Lord Walter was delivered. Sitting directly across the man in-question and provided more than enough wine to wet his throat, Geralt did precisely this. Detailing his own investigation into the castle's history, Harren's near annihilation and appropriation of the weirwood forest, what Balerion's magical fire would've done, and then the dead families who tried and failed to survive in the castle. Bathed in candlelight, Lord Whent's unflinching, grim visage observed Geralt like some foreboding statue. His lady wife, seated immediately to his right, seemed to grow more afeared as Geralt, with further input from Pycelle, went through the various pieces of evidence they'd acquired.

"Though I've only passed through a portion of your castle, Lord Whent," Geralt said after a cup of wine. "My first impression paints a poor picture of the situation, and I don't expect it to improve over the coming days and nights of further investigation."

"... You are absolutely certain there is a curse? Not simply..." He fell silent for a moment, visibly struggling for words. "Remnants of magic?"

"Were it so, our demonstration from earlier wouldn't have happened or this conversation. No, Lord Whent, the curse is quite real, and I suspect many people here have been aware of it, whether they fully knew it or not," Geralt noticed Lady Whent shift in her seat, though he did not deign to so much as glance her way. "The sense of discomfort, that something doesn't want you here, and will hurt you for so much as daring to enter. These are all things people feel and often dismiss, sometimes for good reason, not here. Even places that suffer mundane tragedies and disaster acquire a... malevolent aura about them. Harrenhal has one of the worst I've ever encountered in my decades as a Witcher."

"You've known it since we were children, Walter," Oswell said, not unkindly. "Many times, you sneered at the notion of a curse, but look at what has happened this night. Look what has happened to you! By the light of the seven, in but a year you've aged ten! Someone would sooner mistake you for my father, and not my brother!"

For an instant, the anger from earlier burned bright in Lord Whent's eyes. Yet, as his hand curled about the armrest of his chair, they flicked to it and rested on it.

 _The hands of an old man, not one of but forty and one,_ Geralt could see the thought pass through his mind as he stared at the wrinkled skin. His wife laid hers over his, and Walter seemed to draw strength from the gesture. "The situation is serious. There is no disputing this but not unfixable."

The lord and lady looked at him with renewed interest. "With your permission, I would do a thorough examination of the entire castle grounds. I must know just how far the curse reaches, where it is strongest. I'll also need everyone to tell me of any strange occurrences they've noticed in or around Harrenhal. No matter how absurd it may seem, I want to hear it. The more I understand the curse, the easier it will be to break it, hopefully soon at that."

"If those are your terms, Master Geralt... Then allow me to be the first to speak," Shella Whent said, gathering his strength after a long breath. Lord Whent stared but did not interrupt, even as the surprise was plain to see on his face. "... I have always believed in the gods, the Seven, in the thought of higher powers watching over us, offering us comfort... Since I first visited Harrenhal, I knew... Or perhaps began to suspect that not all of these powers were so benevolent..."

She gave a sympathetic look to Oswell, who sat to Geralt's left. "When you were a boy and told us of that wraith, I could never remove it from my thoughts. Many sleepless nights I had ever after, even as the years went by because of it. Even the joys of marriage and motherhood could stave such dread from my thoughts for but a short while..."

Lord Walter said nothing. The guilt and pain clear for all to see. As was the reason why his wife refrained from sharing these thoughts from him even after so many years.

"When I was heavy with my Maris," Shella Whent continued, turning her gaze at Geralt. "... I do not know, the fear of something terrible happening... One night, when my husband was away, I fled from my chambers and... Found myself in the godswood. I had gone there before, finding solace and peace there... But..." She shivered. "That horrible face of the weirwood... I could never muster the strength to approach it..."

"Until that night."

"Yes, Master Witcher. That night... I felt drawn to the tree. No longer did I see anger or hate... But pain and sorrow. A lonely soul, a kindred spirit. I... Laid down next to the tree, and that was when I... I had a dream, or perhaps it is better to say a vision..."

"A vision, my lady...?" Pycelle inquired, running a hand through his greying beard.

"I was lost in a dark, cold place... My voice was gone, and in every shadow cast by torches... I saw... Creatures, stare back at me through the blackness... Men who were no longer men... Corpses dragged from the sea itself... Calling me... Taunting me, how I would see all of my kin die until only I remained... Old and alone..."

At that moment, Lord Walter's arm came around his wife's shoulders and held her tightly as tears began to fall from her face. For a while, no one interrupted them, letting husband and wife have their moment of respite.

"Thank you..." Shella silently said, smiling and kissing Lord Whent's cheek.

"If you wish, we can continue-"

"No, no Walter, I must," She gently urged him, and he did not stop her. Instead, the Lady of Harrenhal drew strength from the secret lifted from her shoulders. "For my tale is not finished, nor does it end quite so grim."

Then, she looked at Geralt, at all of the company gathered before her, and a childlike admiration entered her eyes. "When it seemed I had succumbed to madness, from the darkness my rescuers came, five men, five knights out of the tales themselves forcing the creatures back. One as tall and terrible as the bat of House Whent. One who shined as bright as a star. One who almost seemed made from gold. Another with no blade yet who stood tall none the less, and then... The last warrior with hair as white as snow and the piercing gaze of a serpent."

* * *

**A/N: Ah, its good to be back. Hopefully I can get Harrenhal finished before exams rear their ugly heads again. And for those wondering why Geralt's eyes are described as serpentine instead of cat-like:**

_On the third day all the children died save one, a male barely ten... Finally came the seventh day. The male awoke and opened his eyes, and his eyes were as those of a viper._

From _Blood of Elves_ , preface to Ch. 3


	20. Chapter 20

Kingspyre Tower, the tallest of the five that rose above the monstrous walls of the rest of Harrenhal, it's original name was lost to history nearly three centuries ago when the first Targaryen king burned it and everyone inside to cinder and ash. The uppermost levels were the hardest hit out of the entire castle, blasted to such a degree they were utterly inaccessible, halls, rooms, and pathways leading to them were transformed into a massive, misshapen lump of burnt rock. Even the places of the upper section still livable were abandoned over fifty years ago when House Whent aided Maekar Targaryen in bringing down the infamous Mad Danelle Lohston.

 _Decades of disrepair and abandonment, and yet nothing's moved in here..._ Geralt thought as he stood at the center of the upmost hall left intact within the tower. Eyes keenly scrutinizing every inch, ears listening keenly for any noise. Over the years, he'd encountered no shortage of desolate keeps and abandoned strongholds. Places where nature and its simpler creatures moved in to lay claim to what man abandoned or left behind. No such thing could be seen three-quarters of the way up the tower. Lord Walter, in preparation for the tourney, already made places within Harrenhal livable for the numerous guests to come. The highest sections of the various towers didn't receive such care.

With no one present during the climb save for himself, Arthur, and Oswell, Geralt could perceive the auditory noises with much less to get in the way. More specifically, the utter lack of them. There was nothing. No matter how hard he tried, the Witcher was unable to hear a single living soul once the three reached the highest available levels. There was no scuttling or buzzing of insects, no sniffing, and prowling of rats. No bats laid claim to the towers deserted chambers and hallways, nor did any birds think to build nests. There wasn't even a cobweb to be found.

_Either the creatures of this world are far more attuned to magic, or even their base instincts know to avoid this place..._

It wasn't difficult to perceive why. Though lacking a medallion, given to Jaime and Pycelle for their simultaneous inspection of the godswood, Geralt didn't need one to grasp the strength of the curse and dragon fire poisoning the air and ground atop the tower. The dampening effect of both from the weirwoods wasn't present in the tallest quarter section of the structure. Either the beams were never used in its initial construction or, and he found this far more likely, Balerion was to thank for this absence. Given the poor state of the towers sections above their heads, even these trees couldn't survive the Black Dread's opening attack. Not when Aegon would've given Harren and his kin special attention.

The heat in the hall and during the daunting walk up to it was insufferable. Sweat covered every inch of his and the bodies of the others, not made any better by the humidity. A bathhouse where the fires and steam never went out and no fresh air was allowed to enter for days would be more pleasant. The sensation of Balerion's leftover magic would've made the place miserable to stand-in alone. The curse only made it worse. No longer did it simply gnaw at the back of one's mind, an unknown danger one could pretend to ignore. Now, it was akin to being surrounded by a pack of wolves or monsters. Snarling, watching, waiting. Letting the inevitability of pain and its threat hang over one's head like a guillotine.

_Now it's only simmering, boiling under the surface, waiting for a spark to ignite it... Us._

"Well, Geralt?" Arthur suddenly spoke, walking closer to the center of the hall with Oswell next to him. "Is this it? The heart of the curse?"

"Its power is purest here," He said, turning to face them. Arthur kept a brave face, though Geralt couldn't miss the tension in his shoulders, the absence of Dawn keenly felt. Oswell did the same, even as his eyes seemed to wander throughout the room, eyeing it all with deserving suspicion. "At least the closest we can get to it given the tower's state above us."

"I feared you would say this..." Arthur's distaste was evident by how he, too, then looked across the room, wiping a few beads of sweat from his brow. He did so for good reasons. The mere act of ascending the place wearing jerkins was taxing, and with armor, it wouldn't become any easier. Then there were the holes. Some in the hall were wide enough to drive a cart through. It was a place no sensible warrior would choose to fight in.

Geralt understood their trepidation for these practical and unspoken personal reasons. He even sympathized with them. These were matters beyond the ordinary, above what they thought was possible up until but a few months ago. Against such forces, even the bravest men would feel trepidation.

_Assurances will do no good for that. Not until I know what all our options are. Besides, the less we say of our plans in this room, the better..._

"Let's see what the others have found." He said with a sigh that wasn't entirely feigned. He moved past the knights, who stared after him for but a moment before following. None of the three men spoke on the way down, though Geralt could imagine them exchanging puzzled looks. Once they'd reached the point where the weirwood effect was present, the atmosphere improved, becoming merely unpleasant instead of unbearable. A handful of men at arms were provided by Lord Walter, and Geralt commanded them to stay put and keep their weapons safe.

When dealing with curses, particularly points where its power was at its purest, it was pivotal to disturb as little as possible. Even mundane alterations or obstructions could cause something to go awry. The risk only increased for magical ones. Thus, they had to temporarily abandon their magical or power obstructing weapons. A dangerous course of action by itself, but suffering a few tense minutes at a pure whirling point of the curse, was far preferable to inadvertently escalating its effects.

 _Maybe nothing would've happened,_ Geralt thought as they eventually finished their descent. _But with a place like this, the fewer maybe's hanging over our heads, the better._

Following their return to ground level came a long journey through many hallways that seemed stretch on into infinity. Their endless lengths were only made bearable by the gradually lessening effects of the curse. With each step towards the godswood, the power of the weirwoods built into the blackened stones seemed more potent. Balerion's fire no longer gave the temperature an unearthly and unwelcome increase of heat. Nor did the twisting coils scratch at the back of Geralt's head. Or anyone else's. Yet even as the Witcher hoped and reasonably enough expected it, the effect of the godswood proper still surprised him.

As he and the group stood at the very edge of the vast forest, stretching out to over 20 acres, it was like entering another world. As far as the eye could see, elms, alders, and black cottonwoods were ever-present.

"Men," Geralt turned to address the group of soldiers who served as their escort. Their wariness was plain to see. Many failed to meet his gaze or hide their trepidacious glances toward the forest. "Stay here until we return. I don't believe we'll require your service for this inspection."

Their leader, a lad of no more than twenty at most with a narrow face and buck teeth protruding from his lips, nodded. Some color returned to his face as he did so. As it did for the rest of their group. For this venture, Geralt and the Kingsguard didn't give up their weapons. Merely standing in their outskirts proved the strength of the weirwoods capabilities. The power of the curse and Balerion's fire was absent. It was utterly repelled. Banished to the other sections within the walls of the castle, not permitted to tarnish this last place of the old land. The godswood of King's Landing was nothing in comparison. Here, the ancient, stalwart power of the earth reigned supreme, present in every leaf, rock, and gentle stream.

 _If the druids of my lands could know of this place, they'd likely try to claim the forest for themselves._ The idea brought a smile to Geralt's lips, along with the potential lying in this place. The possibility of finding answers, and perhaps something to aid them in liberating the castle. But the godswood of Harrenhal was only pleasant in-sofar it was a reprieve from the other, darker forces thriving within this place.

It was an old forest, and this was plain to see the further in they traveled. While the outskirts resembled King's Landings, showing signs of human presence, domesticating the wilderness, the innermost regions were anything but. The air grew thicker with each step, heavy in a way only old woods could. The moon overhead, which shined on them, seemed to be repelled as well, it's light unable to penetrate the thick trees growing taller and older by the moment. Soon, the only light source was from their torches. A thick silence fell over the place, interrupted by the soft sounds of three men's footfalls.

Eventually, they reached a sizable clearing, a cut-off point where all other trees dared not pass over, a place where only one, unlike all the rest, was permitted to be in. The moonlight overhead was no longer blocked, shining down on the weirwood as bright as the sun. Though its size was unimpressive, relative to the other trees that dwarfed it, its appearance was entirely unlike the others. Simultaneously captivating and threatening.

 _Wood as white as bone, and leaves as red as blood... And that face..._ As told by men, living and through books, the weirwood did indeed have human features carved into it. It's narrow eyes thick with red, flowing sap which almost seemed to glow in the torchlight, flaring hatefully at them. Its mouth was twisted, a curl of absolute disgust. The power coming from it was the strongest he'd felt in Harrenhal. No, in all of Westeros. Even Balerion's skull wasn't so saturated with the power. Not even close.

This was magic older than any kingdom or house of men. A primordial force that stretched back eons past the memories or even existence of beasts or sentient creatures. If this tree could speak, entire libraries' worth of tomes could be written. Not that he expected it to share such knowledge even if it could. From the way those baleful eyes seemed to bore into Geralt's, it was far more likely the tree would tell them to go to hell.

 _The last of its kind on this side of the lake,_ Geralt thought as a sudden forlornness came over him. Sudden, but not unfamiliar. Forests, animals, seas, they were all alive as the druids tried and failed to make most others understand. This one was not only more alive but aware than most. With each moment their gazes were locked, Geralt got the distinct impression something very much intelligent was scrutinizing him back. He hadn't even noticed Pycelle, Jaime, and their armed escort approach until they'd walked up right next to him.

The soldiers of House Whent tried to mask their discomfort with grim looks of determination. Ironically, bathed in the moonlight shining down, their expressions mirrored those of the very tree that discomforted them so. Jaime and Pycelle were more relaxed, even if the youth rested a hand atop the pommel and the Grand Maester's hand seemed to wobble uncontrollably.

"Soldiers of House Whent," The Witcher spoke, addressing the armed escort after a moment's silence. "You may leave us."

Exchanging looks, the guards seemed momentarily reluctant to do until their commanding officer, an older man who was closer to Oswell in years, inclined his head. "As you command, Master Witcher."

Once their clanking armors and footfalls faded far into the distance and silence fell once more, Pycelle approached.

"It is as you suspected, Geralt," He opened the wobbling hand to reveal the medallion lying in its palm. It shook so fiercely it almost seemed to perform small leaps with each twitch. "The heart tree is a source of power, perhaps the greatest in the castle. Have you ever witnessed such... Behavior, from your medallion?"

"Only in a handful of other instances," He took it back, though he did not put it on, gripping it tightly between his fingers. "I suspect the top of Kingspyre Tower would've caused a similar reaction had I taken it with me."

"So it is there," Jaime said, taking a deep breath. "The source of the curse..."

"Not the source, but where you're likely to feel the purest sense of the curse. I know what you're all thinking: fighting up there is a madness we should avoid at all costs but one we may have to accept as a possibility. Fortunately, some facts work to our advantage in this regard. Breaking a curse at its source of power is the swiftest way of ending it."

"Harren's wraith," Oswell said. "Your mind has not been changed on this matter?"

"No, if anything, getting a closer look at this place has verified some of my earlier assumptions. This situation reminds me of a previous curse-breaking I've done by its sheer scale alone. A battlefield where dead men, wraiths, and specters, were forced to reenact a battle in perpetuity until the greatest of them was slain by me. This arch-wraith was the lynchpin of the curse, through which all its energy channeled.

"Harren or one of his sons, one of them lived long enough to muster the pure hatred and bile necessary to cast such a curse. Perhaps more of them, I felt many eyes watch me atop that tower," The other's eyes flashed as he said this, recalling the unmistakable sensation of being observed from the shadows. "The overwhelming force of Balerion's power, inadvertently, raised the possibility of such a thing coming to pass. Then there's Harren's obvious fascination with the weirwoods and their use of constructing this place. Yes... Sorcery was afoot here long before any Targaryen conquerors came to the Westeros mainland."

"None know precisely how Harren and his kin perished," Pycelle said, thoughtfully running a hand through his beard. "Only that they were within the tower when the Black Dread turned them to ash."

"The heart tree might."

"... The tree?" Jaime repeated.

"There is a power within that tree, and within this very forest," Geralt answered calmly, his eyes gazing across the thick woods all-around them. "A power which not even the curse or dragon fire can overwhelm to this day. If I can gain a greater understanding of it, I might be able to catch a glimpse of events long past. Learn some facts that can aid us in the inevitable curse breaking. Or do you doubt such a possibility after Lady Whent's tale?"

"That's why you spoke little atop the tower," Arthur said. "No unwanted eyes or ears of the living and the dead to hear what they should not."

"That's how we're doing it, from this meeting until the last. You will not utter a word about the curse or how we're going about dealing with it outside the confines of this forest. If one must write letters of progress to the king, Lord Tywin, or anyone else in King's Landing, they will do so here. Discretion and secrecy are of paramount importance from this moment forth."

"The king will have to be managed," Oswell said, addressing Pycelle and Arthur. "Once he hears we've reached Harrenhal, he will demand this and that of us. I'd not be surprised if his patience was already thin from the time it took us to arrive alone."

"The Ser Arthur and I shall manage this," Pycelle replied, giving the knight a knowing smile. "His Grace has always been... Positively disposed towards us. I am certain that letters from us shall earn us enough time to do our work properly."

"Yes," Arthur smiled back. "Particularly if Ser Barristan were the one to speak our words to the king."

"Varys will aid us as well," Geralt said, his mouth just slightly curling. "The Spider shapes his schemes known only to him, but for now, he's on our side, and Aerys listens to him closely. Still, we mustn't waste a moment, and there's much to be done in the days ahead."

He tossed the medallion to Jaime, he deftly caught it. "You'll take your horse and ride out across the outskirts of the castle grounds. Pay very close attention to the vibrations of the medallion. As soon as you feel the vibrations end, stop, and mark the position down on a map. I want to know precisely where the power of this place starts and ends. Once that's done, I'll do a second sweep myself and make out which magic it is."

Jaime gripped the medallion tight and bowed his head. "Of course, I won't fail you."

"I know," He faintly smiled before turning to the others. "Arthur, Oswell, you'll accompany me during our tours of the towers. So far, we know Kingspyre is a point of the curse's purest energies. We need to assess the damage done to the others, make sure there's only one such place for the wraiths to retreat to and not more."

"With full arms," Oswell said. "By the time we've climbed up and down half a dozen times, we'll scarcely need any effort at all to do it later."

"Grand Maester, you'll continue practicing your incantations within the forest. Keep the bait safe too, it may not even be a bad idea to bring it here to completely mask its presence. I don't want anything setting off the wraiths until we're ready."

"A wise choice," He replied. "Is there anything else you wish for us to do?"

"Yes, hold out a hand, all of you," They exchanged puzzled glances but acquiesced to his demand. Geralt, meanwhile, went about swiftly picking and choosing from various things littering the ground. A rock, fistfuls of dirt, a twig or two, and gave each one to a member of the Hanse. "I wish to test the repellent capabilities of the godswoods force. Each of you holds a tiny portion of this place. Carry these with you in the coming days, then report to me if you sense any change in the general feel of the castle or your own moods. If even these small bits and pieces can offer resistance to the curse, all the better for us."

"A dirt and twigs meaning the difference between life and death," Oswell muttered, shaking his head as he gripped the soil tightly. "Half a year ago, I'd have laughed at the very thought."

"The world is more interesting than any of us thought possible," Pycelle replied, gently carrying the twig given to him. "Interesting... And dangerous."

"As a friend of mine would say, danger and wonder are as close as bravery and madness," Geralt smiled again, turning towards the heart tree. "Get some rest everyone, we've got long days ahead of us, and in my case, little sleep, I think."

"You mean to sleep here?" Jaime asked, nudging the twig in his free hand back and forth between his fingers. "Would it not be wiser to merely ask Lady Whent to do it instead?"

"That's my second plan if my attempts yield no results," He started walking to the heart tree, and so did the others in the opposite direction. Their footfalls grew fainter while the air grew thicker the closer Geralt approached.

Unlike any other tree, he'd come across before, this one had no scent. Not the bark or the leaves. Most humans wouldn't notice or care, but to his heightened Witcher senses, it was a perplexing thing. Its eyes continued to follow him as he stood but ten feet away and laid his weapons on the ground. Then, he moved to the side, pressing his back and head against the trunk. The stars shined brightly overhead, as did the moon. With a series of long-practiced and mastered breathing motions, Geralt relaxed his muscles, let his worries fall to the wayside, and soon enough, fell into a slumber.


	21. Chapter 21

The malodorous scent of Crookback Bog was heavy in the air. It's fetid waters bubbling with noxious gases meant to poison men and beasts who dared to venture forth. A heavy wind blew through the trees, swaying and bending them in unnatural directions as the setting sun took an unnaturally red tinge at their backs. For ordinary people, particularly the superstitious who lived in and on the outskirts of this swamp, they were omens. Begone, leave or suffer, and die. For a sorceress and two Witchers, it was little more than a wounded, rabid animal snarling even as its death drew near.

Sleeping with his head rested against the trunk of the heart tree, Geralt vividly relived their hunt for the last of the Crones. With agonizing detail, he recalled every foul stench, push of the wind, and each step taken. He smiled as Yen wrinkled her nose in disgust of the place, frowned each time Ciri's impatience momentarily threatened to prompt her into foolishness. He recalled the werewolf Berem who forewarned them of danger, and pulsation of old, dreadful magic than hung in the air and the swarms of beasts encircling them as they drew closer.

The Witcher felt the heat of Yennefer's flames, the pounding of her lightning as it kept the monsters at bay, how Ciri's dazzling powers blinked her from one place to another. The tension and momentum of his own, swaying body as it carved crows out of the sky. Weavess' death cry rang in his ears as Ciri plunged her newly acquired sword through the children eating beast. The recovery of Vesemir's medallion, burning the huts to ash, and their celebration afterward, it was a good day. One of the best in many, many years.

"Reliving that, it felt good. No, better than that." Geralt concluded his recollection of the experience. His audience comprised of Lord and Lady Whent, along with most of the Hanse, save for Jaime, who'd brought him food and drink for breakfast. The Whent's listened silently, sometimes in wonder, and other times in fear, as Geralt gave them a simplified version of events. The others, who'd grown more accustomed to his stories, remained more or less unfazed. Then again, he hadn't told any of them quite a few of the specifics.

"The heart tree chose for you to relive this experience," Pycelle pointed out, brow furrowed. "My knowledge of this... Oneiromancy is decidedly limited, but is it premature to say clues may exist within this memory?"

"The thought had crossed my mind as well," Geralt said after downing a few gulps of Arbor red. "Crookback Bog was an old place of wild, untamed nature, with ancient forces practicing magic there for hundreds of years. Not too dissimilar to where we stand now in power, though this godswood doesn't near match the Bog's malicious aura. Then there's my enemy, the Crone, one of three who feasted on the flesh of men, women, and children to empower herself."

"Mad Danelle did the same, so the tales tell," Lord Whent said, recovering his composure. "My grandfather served as her bannerman in those times, the last Whent to do so before Harrenhal was given to us by king Maekar."

"Used to frighten us with tales of bats devouring babes," Oswell's face brightened as he spoke. "Of a red-headed demon who would claw our hides if we did not act properly."

"Aye, most of his tales were in jest. In truth, he was fonder of delighting us with his days battling the Blackfyre usurpers, stories of blood and steel, the kind any lad would enjoy, save for his last," The guilt from their conversation last night resurfaced, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. "Oswell had already left to be fostered a year when grandfather's health, at last, began to fail him. In but a few days, he was gone, and yet every time I came to visit, he spoke of the castle with a mad fire. How terrible things came to pass here, wrongdoings to damn king and farmer to the worst of the seven hells."

"Lohston's wrongdoings."

"... Yes," He sighed. "Blood sacrifices, consuming the flesh of men. I am ashamed to say these frightened me not, bearing witness to that great man's crumbling before my eyes did. All his talk of evil and such, I dismissed as talk of a dying man haunted by a failing mind..."

Oswell, who but for a moment looked furious again, cooled as Lord Walter's composure fell, making him look every bit the prematurely aged man the curse had made him. Lady Whent stepped closer, placing an arm around Walter's shoulders. Her eyes, full of empathy and fright, were on Geralt.

"Harrenhal's history of blood and sacrifice does not begin with Danelle Lohston, Master Witcher."

"You're referring to the First Men practices."

"I am. For years, I have collected tomes of knowledge, common and rare on the subject, trying to learn as much as I can of those ancient customs. Like many things from the times before the Andal arrival, the information is scarce. What exists is surrounded by myth and legends. The children of the forest were responsible for the weirwoods creation and the First Men's attempts to cut them down before embracing the old gods. I do not know if the children offered blood and flesh to heart trees. Men, however, did. One King in the North ripped the entrails of invading slavers and hung them from weirwood branches."

"I would ask that you pass on this knowledge and along with any tomes concerning the First Men and Harren to the Grand Maester, my lord and lady," Geralt said, finishing the last of the bacon brought to him. "Any breadcrumb of information may prove indispensable. No matter how ridiculous it may seem. I would do it myself were the castle not in such need of thorough inspection."

"You wish for me to pass on this knowledge," Pycelle correctly guessed. "To aid you in oneiromancy."

"Successfully doing it, to put it simply, is a right pain in the ass even for people predisposed towards it. However, if the one dreaming gets subjected to enough information concerning a person or place, it can improve the chances of prompting a vision. That's where you'll come in, Grand Maester. For a few hours every evening, before I go to sleep, you will repeat everything you've learned of Harren when you're not busy practicing the incantations I taught you. I would suggest you join us, my lady."

She blinked. "Me?"

"If I fail to learn anything, it will fall to you experiencing another vision to discover what precisely Harren was trying to accomplish here. If it's anything remotely as revolting as what we're all assuming it is, the experience will be... Unpleasant."

"Is it dangerous," Walter asked, the very notion bringing the lord back out of his stupor. "Well? Is there any chance this... Vision could cause her harm?"

"Truthfully...?" Geralt sighed, looking back to the heart tree, it's eyes locking with his. "From what Lady Whent said of her first experience, it shouldn't do more than a poor night's sleep and memories best left forgotten of the experience."

"You don't sound sure."

"I'm not. Heart trees don't exist where I come from. I've never encountered a thing quite like one. I can only speak from my own experiences with visions of the past, present, and even future. Mine were rooted in mystique, allegory, difficult to decipher. Whereas Lady Whent's portent of the future was surprisingly specific. Such explicit detail will work to our advantage, but I doubt it'll make the journey itself bearable given what I know of Harren."

"If it comes down to it, I will aid you."

"Shella-"

"I know you worry for me, husband," Shella Whent interjected, leaving Lord Walter standing with his mouth agape. "And I know the guilt and love that drive you to ask such questions. But if I am the only one who can help free our home from this evil, at long last, is it not my duty as a Whent to see it through?"

"She won't do it alone," Geralt assured him. "If I even detect for a moment she's in any danger, I'll pull her out of the dream. Then, I'll have words with the green men about these trees and why Harren was so infatuated with them."

Most of the others present stared at him as if another head suddenly sprouted from his neck. The Whent's in-particular looked aghast at the thought. An understandable reaction, given the air of mystery surrounding this group and their isolated island. Only Arthur Dayne's surprise was momentary. If anything, his smile showed respect for Geralt's boldness.

"We must have answers."

"We must," Geralt agreed with the Sword of the Morning, shifting his gaze to the others. "If all other options are exhausted and result in nothing, then who else can we ask but the green men? They've watched the banks of the lake for generations, and I doubt they'd ever forget Harren's actions on it. Besides, they've no quarrel with me. I'm not a descendant of the First Men or an Andal, and if they were truly so hostile to all outsiders, how did Addam Velaryon come back alive?"

The obvious answer, which no one voiced but most certainly thought of, was him possessing a bloody dragon. Geralt did not expect it to come to that. The weirwoods were predisposed toward aiding them already. They merely needed to perform the final push necessary to gain the full picture of how the curse came about. Once these matters were settled, Geralt inquired into the effectiveness of the godswood pieces. Arthur, Oswell, and Pycelle all stated an improvement in their mood, finding the castle less threatening. They even slept quite well with the trinkets on their person. All the same, he told them to keep at it and provided similar pieces for Lord and Lady Whent.

The proceeding few days fell into a mostly unbroken pattern. During the mornings and much of the afternoons, Geralt went about his examination of the castle. Arthur and Oswell accompanied him throughout, and all three men wore full-arms. It made ascending and descending the four remaining towers a bothersome but necessary physical exercise. If they couldn't sustain an ascension up those seemingly endless steps in more favorable conditions, how could they when the power of the curse flared?

The Towers of Dread and the Widow had their weirwood resistance, despite suffering the effects of Balerion's searing heat. Geralt and the Kingsguard were able to travel their whole length without the need to leave their weapons behind. Lord Walter and Lady Whent accompanied them through much of the inspection, offering some insights into their history. The Tower of Dread was named for a former torture chamber where Harren personally oversaw and allegedly partook in the mutilation of those who most defied him. The Widow's Tower was named for Harren's last wife, who bore his youngest son, Emberlei Blackwood.

The Blackwoods and the Bracken's were some of the oldest and most notorious families in the riverlands, if not all Seven Kingdoms. They were once allies who found themselves bitter rivals when the Andals came, and the Bracken's took to the faith of the seven. The Blackwood's kept to the old gods, and to this very day, their ties to the First Men remained strong. Geralt knew this was no coincidence, nor did he miss the meaningful glances and hints of trepidation from the Whent's as they spoke of the Blackwood's. He chose not to pursue the matter, for now.

The Wailing Tower was one of the more notorious places in Harrenhal. From the colossal cracks along the walls, hallways, and ceilings, there was a constant howling noise, the higher one climbed. A perpetual, grating wailing that was easy for the common man to mistake as ethereal, otherwordly. To the surprise of the Whent's, and somewhat to Geralt's amusement, it was in truth nothing but the wind. Something which he revealed to them once they returned to the safety of the godswood during a late afternoon.

"A-Are you certain, Master Witcher?" Lady Whent inquired, disbelief clear in her voice. "For years, I've..."

"Thought it was haunted? Yes, it's not an uncommon reaction, particularly when one is inclined to believing in the ways of magic. However, the weirwoods presence remains strong there. It might, ironically enough, have one of the strongest resistances to the curse. Besides, I've more than my share of experience with debunking false sightings and claims of ghosts and monsters. If I got a gold coin for every instance..."

"Enough to fill the vault of the Red Keep?" Oswell asked with a grin.

Geralt did the same. "At least thrice over."

The Tower of Ghosts, however, provided no such levity. It was the most ruinous of them all, as well as the shortest. Situated near the east postern, near an equally decrepit sept, the Tower of Ghosts was another concentration point of the curse. Before stepping inside, they once again discarded any items of magic and walked to its upper levels. Such as they were. Balerion had done such damage to it, there was barely a room left standing just a quarter of the way up, or even a ceiling. Just like Kingspyre, this was avoided by beasts as well as men. Even the rats who swarmed the old sept nearby avoided it. Its name came from the belief that only the dead could stomach being inside.

That evening, after the others left and Geralt was alone with Pycelle until Lady Whent arrived from the dinner, the Witcher voiced his frustration.

"If that was the only concentration point of the curse, it would've made things a thousandfold easier," He admitted, back pressed against the heart tree while the Grand Maester sat some twenty feet away, a stack of books lined immediately to his right. "With the properties of the soil and trees here, we could've formed a circle of both around the tower's grounds. It would've trapped the curses energies there and the wraiths inside that fixed radius. The fight would be on our terms."

"And none would have to leave the walls of Harrenhal," Pycelle gave a justifiably concerned look. "Do you believe Lord Whent shall refuse such a course of action? Despite all he has come to know?"

"Accepting the existence and threat of magic is another. Telling everyone in the castle to abandon it for one is no small undertaking, not the least of which comes down to the size of the place and the possibility of Harrentown being under the curses sway. Even if it's ultimately not, they're too close to one another..."

The sound of footfalls grew in the distance. The third member of their group was soon to arrive. Once they grew close enough, even Pycelle picked up on the sound.

"We should count ourselves fortunate then," He tried his best reassuring smile. "We've someone who holds much sway over Lord Walter is quite predisposed towards our cause."

"I hope it's enough."

That evening and many more to come, the three spent many hours sharing information concerning Harren the Black. They had exhausted the personal history of House Hoare, who traced their lineage back to the mythical Age of Heroes. Unlike the rest of Westeros, the ironborn chose their king through a kingsmoot in those days. A process of selection between several noteworthy candidates from across their territories. It was very similar to what the people of Skellige practiced for such matters. House Hoare's greatest from that era, Harrag and Qhored, were noted battle commanders who caused the northmen generations of grief.

Eventually, the kingsmoot age died off when House Greyiron established a hereditary dynasty. A dynasty that, as many seemed to in this world, last for an absurd number of years. The Hoare's brought this ruling family down during the age of the Andal invasions, using marriages to gain their support. Archmaester Haraeg's tome _History of the Ironborn_ , a frequent reference point in their discussions, showed a legacy of reavers and conquerors at some points yet tradesmen in others. The Hoare's were allegedly mistrusted by their fellow ironborn for allowing the Faith of the Seven amongst their people.

Finally, came to the subject of Harren himself. A universally despised figure no matter which source one chose to glean from. He'd inherited both the iron islands and the riverlands conquered by his grandfather, Harwyn Hardhand. Despite the vast wealth he already enjoyed, Harren's bloodthirstiness was superseded only by his vanity. He did not rule from a castle built into a mountain as the Kings of the Rock. Not an unconquerable seat that famously resisted even the god's wrath in its seventh attempt. The King of the Isles and Rivers commanded all under him from a modest tower house at Fairmarket. His pride couldn't stomach the fact.

That was as far as any academic was willing or interested to go with regards to Harren's motives. Vanity and pride alone prompted him to sacrifice thousands, cut down ancient godswoods, and erect such a stronghold. Weirwoods were only used for their strength as material. The location of the castle was there to tighten his hold over the famously troublesome riverlords. He wanted a close enough command point from which to strike out at Argilac Durrandon or an impregnable retreat point if his conquests went poorly. All of them made sense once Geralt or anyone interested enough looked at the full historical context of Harren's time and the troubles of his forebearers.

Religious reasons were never factored in by the numerous maester's who chronicled ironborn history. There were but two or three passing mentions of Harren following the Drowned God, nothing else. His father, Halleck, only nominally supported the religion, paying service to its customs at absolute most. He'd only ever visited the iron islands themselves on but three occasions. The construction of a sept as part of Harrenhal was seemingly never deemed interesting enough to warrant mention or further inspection into Harren's character. A monster was a monster, simple as that.

The heart tree didn't respond the way Geralt desired, in-spite practically beating centuries of ironborn history into his head and traversing the length of the vast castle. His dreams were more recollections of the Crookback Bog fight, and in two instances, memories of the Eternal Battle. When the first week of their stay in Harrenhal came to a close, it was decided to let Lady Whent try her hand at prompting a vision. Lord Whent misliked the notion still, but his wife's words and assurance that all five members of the Hanse would be present and awake for the night was enough to convince him.

And so the six found themselves back at the heart tree that evening. The sky was, as usual, was filled with bright, shining stars. Some of them even streaked through the night. A brilliant shine made more prominent by the absence of the moon.

"It is said on moonless nights, misbehaving children shall be flown by winged horrors back to Harrenhal, to Danelle Lohston," Shella Whent said, gazing at the sky as she and Geralt stood but twenty feet away from the heart tree. The rest of the Hanse stood further back, hidden Lord Whent and his two oldest sons the furthest. Geralt could hear them shift uneasily in the outskirts of the clearing. "For a time, I thought I too would go mad, knowing what I did... Some families are cursed with it in their very blood..."

She fell silent after a quivering breath, lowering her gaze toward the weirwood scrutinizing them. "You've no doubt noticed, Master Witcher, how Walter and I are... Wary of all Blackwood talk?"

"It came to my attention."

"There is a good reason for it, one I wish for you to hold silent on until the end of your days."

"I've no intention of breaking whatever trust you place in me."

"Yes... I thought so, I only..." She shook her head. "House Blackwood has married into many families across the Seven Kingdoms, as have most Houses of such prestige. They've even found their way into the royal Targaryen family through blood, if not name. The Lohston's were one such family, and we the Whent's were their most loyal and respected bannermen."

"So loyal, you became bound by marriage as well long ago. It wasn't just bravery against Danelle that earned you Harrenhal," Geralt concluded correctly, judging by her nod. "House Blackwood, connecting together Houses Hoare, Lohston and now Whent. Bringing the blood of the First Men into all three..."

Geralt didn't doubt its presence already, particularly in the Hoare's who's ironborn practice of salt wives would've done so generations prior. Regardless, it was a detail he knew wasn't irrelevant.

"I won't speak of this, my lady," The Witcher assured, letting his proclamation before a heart tree emphasize its authenticity to her. "But I would ask this of you: if there is another such secret you carry, reveal it now. Later, there will be no room or time for such things."

"My greatest secrets are laid bare," The burden of years was almost palpable in her tired voice. "Their chains have held me so tightly, it is a wonder my worst fears of going mad did not come true."

 _Madness would've been a_ _reprieve,_ Geralt thought, not for the first or last time feeling a great deal of sympathy for the woman. _It is far worse to be sane, knowing even a sliver of the truth and that no one will believe you._

"They won't," He promised again, bowing his head. "Harren's shadow has poisoned all under it long enough. The troubles of you and your family are coming to an end. You have my word on that."

Even as her eyes betrayed a weariness, no words could entirely erase Shella Whent managed to smile warmly. "You should consider knighthood, Geralt. I believe you would be worthier of it than most."

The Witcher smiled back. "The thought has occurred to me once or twice."

Lady Whent settled down next to the heart tree minutes after, using one of its many protruding trunks as a cushion. Geralt listened to the diminishing of her heartbeat, the quieting of her breathing. He stepped away from the weirwood, making as little noise as possible, and rejoined the rest of the Hanse. They sat down in a small circle formation, similar to what they'd done during the trek to Harrenhal. While there was no campfire, wineskins were not absent.

"Any notion of when it will happen, Geralt?" Oswell asked as the Witcher sat down next to him, accepting the offered wineskin. The two sat in such a way as to always have the heart tree in their sights. A single dash in the span of a few heartbeats would close the distance between them and it. "I'm not as afeared as my brother but,..."

"It may not happen tonight at all," He admitted after a gulp, offering the skin to Jaime next. "We may be at this for a while. We may not. This part is out of my hands, as troubling as that may sound. Don't drink too much of that. You'll need to stay sharp."

Jaime stopped mid-drink, giving him a puzzled look. "You said the forest was safe."

"It is, but Lord Walter and his two oldest are watching us. The man's on edge already, and I'd rather avoid pissing him off by acting sloppy."

"I thought I'd heard something shuffling about," Arthur said, waving aside the offered skin. Pycelle accepted. "We would be wise to pass the time to remain awake."

"So long as it's not anymore ironborn history lectures, I'm all for it."

The hours of the bat and the eel passed remarkably quick and without incident. As they did on the journey to the castle, they kept each other awake and quietly amused with tales of days gone. None drank much wine, and the hiding Whent's did not deign to join them. During the hour of ghosts, they all stilled mid-conversation when a monumental trembling erupted from Geralt's medallion. The Witcher and his party members stared at it, swaying wildly in the palm of his hand. A heartbeats length later, they sprang to their feet and made way to the weirwood.

At a distance of forty feet, Geralt suddenly stopped and raised his hand. "Wait, give me a moment..."

Taking a few cautious steps forward, the Witcher stared at the sleeping form of Shella Whent, the tree towering over her, and the quickening build-up of power around them both. There was a faint but familiar sound, a kind of roaring when a magic wielder approached a place of power. There was a thick, primordial presence of it, stronger than before. Underneath, it was exponentially stronger. Geralt could practically feel the very hill shake as the magic veins pulsated like a living man's. It gathered inside the heart tree, slipping out of it and reaching into Shella.

The Lady of Harrenhal barely stirred at all. Her breath only infinitesimally quickened, so slightly only a Witcher's senses would even pick it up. Seamlessly and unconsciously, she drew it into herself as if on an old reflex. Though physically unaltered, in the unseen energies coursing through all things around them, Shella and the weirwood were one and the same. Geralt had never seen so much active power without a single discernible outwardly alteration of the surroundings. The tree, the leaves, the ground, all remained visibly unchanged.

_And yet there's enough power here for a proper wizard to blow this pile of burned rock into oblivion._

From afar, Geralt heard the observing Whent's spring into action, their footfalls thumping against soil and crushing leaves. They rushed toward the tree. Geralt wasn't sure if crossing into the swirling energies would break the vision or have some other unforeseen consequence, but he wasn't about to gamble on it. He slowly but swiftly intercepted them in their path, raising a hand to halt.

"Wait, my lord," He whispered as the hair on the back of his neck stood up from the power. "Whatever power lies in the tree is active. Active but not dangerous to Lady Shella. There's no reason to interfere."

"Do as he says, Walter," Oswell approached next, standing at the Witcher's left. "When there is a danger, we will act. If not, you'll only make an arse of yourself and force Shella to do it again."

Though Lord Walter gazed at his brother with an understated but undeniable look of ferocity, he did not act rashly. His son's, meanwhile, looked uneasy, glancing between the two of them with reasonable trepidation. Geralt glanced over his shoulder at the heart tree. The power no longer grew but continued to swirl in and out of Shella like a flowing river, neverending river. Once or twice, he heard a hitched breath, an indecipherable mumble. Eventually, the power began to wane. Geralt's medallion no longer shook as harshly. The veins of magic running under the ground settled into docility, and Lady Whent's eyes slowly opened.

"It's over..."

"Shella!" Lord Walter ran past them to her side, his son's and Oswell following suit. Though each one offered to help her stand, Lady Whent rejected all such offers. Even positioning herself to lie against the trunk seemed too much of an exertion. After she had drunk a few noticeably large gulps of wine, Lady Whent looked at the crowd gathered before she and silently asked, "Where is the Witcher?"

"Here, my lady," Geralt approached, kneeling before her once the others parted a way for him. Taking a better look at her, Shella Whent looked less like a lady and more of a drunken brawler by the sheer exhaustion present on her features. "If it's too much, we can speak of this-"

"No, no,... We must speak of this now," She closed her eyes, frowning to help focus her undeniable weary mind. "You were right, it was... Far more unpleasant than the last time, I-I shan't forget it until my dying breathe..."

"... You saw Harren the Black, mother?" Roland Whent asked with fear and awe in equal measure. "Truly...?"

"In all his depravity, my boy... I was alone, in a dark, fathomless place where I saw naught but blackness and the sounds of my own footfalls. My voice... Failed me. I could not utter so much as a word. It was... frightening, overwhelming, merely considering the solitude. But... I was not alone. Another creature joined me, guided me, a crow. It's like I've never before witnessed..." Shella's let out a shaky breath, looking at Geralt. "It had three eyes, and it spoke, in an old voice that brokered no argument. It told me to follow, the truth awaited above..."

"Above where?" Geralt asked, trying and failing to recall any instance of encountering a three-eyed crow.

"The rest of the castle. The blackness around me became walls, strong, thick walls, and hallways that seemed never to end. It was Harrenhal. I knew it at once. New and pristine... But I recognized it all the same. The crow guided my way, commanding me to follow and never veer from its path... It took me... To Kingspyre Tower... Up new stone steps, where the setting sun shined through windows and not fissures... To a place that no longer exists... That is when I saw them, him..."

She shivered as though a horrid chill ran through her.

"He was old and hairless yet with an armor blacker than any shadow and that crown, Harren the Black had come to life before my very eyes. He sat at the end of the hall, atop a white weirwood throne with his sons beneath the steps. When his gaze passed over the room and flicked to me... I thought he would... He paid no heed to me or the crow. Nor did his sons. All but one was a man grown... Save for Harren, all of them drank something foul, yet they dared not voice displeasure before him...

" _Look_ , the crow told me, _look and remember well, child_. And so I did. I looked as Harren leaned back in his throne, and a whiteness overtook his eyes. I watched as all his sons began to shake, tremble as though poison was in their veins until their eyes too became white... I will... Always remember how the seven came upon the eight... The child... And with no hesitation, no mercy ripped him to pieces... How he stood as silent as a statue even as his limbs-"

Her demeanor crumbled, and she could no longer contain her sobs and cries. Walter, her sons, and even Oswell came close to Shella, offering her what little comfort they could. The other members of the Hanse watched, deathly silent as only horrified people could. Geralt did not press on for a while. Lady Whent needed to let it out, while the Witcher needed a moment to suppress the seething anger and hate that burned in his chest.

"... He ate the child's remains,..." Shella revealed as she wiped the tears away, finding the strength to meet Geralt's eyes. "Drank his blood... I could not bear it... I screamed at the crow, demanded answers, how... Why, why would a father butcher his own child... _Power_ , the crow said, _to command men and beasts, now it is his only hope to survive against a new threat. To endure..._ _That_ _._

"Before I could ask, a shadow fell over the hall. The setting sun... Vanished, that was what I thought until I approached the nearest window and realized I was only somewhat wrong. It was unlike any creature I could even begin to imagine... It's spread wings engulfed all I could see, its scales seemed alive with fire, its teeth dwarfed even the finest blades, even it's breath seemed to ignite a fire in the air," Her voice grew fainter, more fearful. "And it's eyes... There was a mind behind them, a hateful will of its own... When they turned white, my breath failed me... The thought of that monster commanding the Black Dread..."

She shivered again, pressing herself closer to Walter. "But it was for naught... Balerion roared with such force the very glass shattered... Then it all burned when the dragon obeyed the Conqueror's command. The black flame seared into the hall... Harren's sons perished immediately, even as their hair caught flames and skin turned grey than black... They uttered not a word. Harren..."

"Survived long enough to cast the curse."

"Mine! He shouted, somehow, the flames did not burn him as it did the others... Somehow, he managed to rise and stand even as the very stone around him melted away into what it is today... Mine, he screamed again, even as his lips burned away, and his teeth burst... Mine it will always be, and all those who lay claim to it shall suffer and die... Down to the last of their kin..."

She did not cry again, merely sighing as her strength seemed to be spent. Their sons had paled as she spoke, rivaling Geralt's own complexion. The rest of the Hanse shifted in place while Oswell stepped away from the tree, putting as much distance as he could. Lord Whent did not bother asking if she could stand, taking and carrying her in his arms.

"Wait, Walter," Shella said with a weak voice, stopping him before they could leave. "There is one more thing I must say... A message for Geralt..."

The Witcher frowned as a chill settled into his veins. "A message?"

"From the three-eyed crow, it is the last I saw of it as black flames danced in and around us... _Break the curse, White Wolf of Rivia. Break it, and all shall become clear._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was hoping to get to the actual curse breaking this chapter, along with a few other things but with the way things were going, I probably would've doubled the existing length, at least. In any event, it is definitely going down next time.


	22. Chapter 22

The summer sun had scarcely begun to set when Geralt and the rest of the company awaited the arrival of Lord and Lady Whent. It was a meeting long since coming, from the Witcher's earliest considerations of Harrenhal's curse. A pivotal moment where things could become exponentially easier or infinitely more difficult. In the days since Lady Whent's weirwood experience, he and the others kept themselves busy in various ways. Grand Maester Pycelle aided in hastening Shella's recovery. The weirwood had left her tired, bedridden for two whole days.

It had made the situation within those walls understandably tense, the previous faint murmurs of sorcery quite boldly being spoken of for all to hear. Lord Whent scarcely left his lady wife's side, and Geralt had no doubts the man misliked him for placing her in such a position, despite her stance on the matter. Fortunately, Lady Whent's strength returned, and the Witcher avoided Lord Walter most of the time. There was work to be done outside the walls.

Thanks to Jaime's earlier scouting efforts, Geralt ascertained the rough endpoints of magic across Whent lands, where his medallion no longer shook. During this second planned pass through their territory, the Witcher journeyed to these points, sensing out what magic was present throughout. Sometimes, others even joined him. After so much time spent within Harrenhal and the godswood, he and his companions found it relieving to roam the countryside on horseback. If things went poorly, it was the last chance many or all of them might have of doing so.

Once this final piece of the investigation concluded, there was nothing else left but to schedule a meeting with Lord Whent. A chance to deliver the final report of Harrenhal's situation and a recommendation for what to do next. That last part, he knew, would cause trouble, arguments. It had to be done, however, for the good of everyone inside and around Harrenhal.

Now, I only need to convince the man-in-charge of that, Geralt thought whilst he and the others observed the lord and lady of Harrenhal cross the final distance to the heart tree's clearing. Lady Shella pointedly avoided gazing at it. Instead, she offered Geralt the briefest of reassuring smiles. At least I've a considerable ally or two in doing so.

Her husband, looking well-rested for a change, inclined his head. "Master Witcher."

"My lord," He said with utmost formality and bowed. The remainder of his Hanse did the same. "I'm pleased to say our scouting has born results. There is nothing left to doubt over this situation."

"I am satisfied to hear this," Lord Whent answered amicably, kneeling before a small table placed for the meeting. "Show me all that you've learned."

He seems in good spirits, Geralt noted, finding him in a seemingly genial mood. He reached for the map and unfurled it across the table. Both lord and lady leaned forward and began to scrutinize what he'd drawn across it. Hopefully, it doesn't evaporate the instant I get to that.

"To reach the heart of the matter in the simplest terms, I've divided the lands of House Whent into three parts," Geralt explained, running his finger along the edges of the map, separated by newly drawn borders by himself and Jaime. "These lands are of no concern to us. Magic was either weak in them to begin with, or waned in the years since the godswoods cutting."

"The middle portion," His finger drew closer to the castle, between the first magic border and the final, innermost one. "Is where the power of the godswood remains present, even considerable to this day. I would venture to say the fertility of the soil there can be attributed to its presence."

"And the curse?" Lord Walter asked. "The dragon flames?"

"Not present, thankfully. The only place where all three powers exist simultaneously is here," Geralt's voice grew just the barest hint grimmer, his right index finger tapping the center of the map. "Harrenhal and Harrentown. Every single thinking, feeling being residing in either place is at risk. Not only of the curse but the inevitable consequences of our attempts to break it."

"And these consequences are...?"

"A discharge of considerable, uncontrollable power," Geralt spoke plainly, focusing all his attention on Lord Whent. "The demonstration of magic's existence by myself and Arthur? It's nothing in comparison to what will transpire, less than nothing. It will be no mere show of lights, a wind tossing cutlery every which way. Our attempts to liberate your castle, your people, from the throes of Harren's power will be a spark that will burst into a great flame. The likes of which hasn't been seen in this country since the last great dragons perished."

Lord Whent's eyes narrowed and then steadily, imperceptibly grew, the inevitable realization of what Geralt would say next dawning upon him. Shella's mouth drew into a thin line, her hands already moving to her husband's.

"If we're to ensure a successful and bloodless breaking of this curse," Geralt putting as much certainty and severity into his voice as he could. "Then Harrenhal and Harrentown must both be abandoned."

An expectedly uncomfortable, thick silence fell on the forest. Witcher and lord gazed at one another, the former unflinching and the latter stunned. Not even Lady Whent's touch could shake Walter from his surprise. Astonishment inevitably gave way on its own, replaced by a restrained fury. Geralt didn't miss his hands curl tightly around the arms of his chair.

"You would have me forsake my castle...?" Lord Walter said in just above a whisper. "Force my family and people to flee from it? Harrentown as well...?!"

"Walter-"

"No, Shella!" The shout thundered from the deepest recess' of his throat, carrying itself through the trees for what seemed like acres. A fist slammed against the table with such force Geralt heard the wood creak. Lord Whent's nostrils flared with each deep breath. He sharply rose to full height, a wolf ready to pounce. "I am not blind to what forces are at work... I've seen enough proof for a thousand lifetimes, but he asks too much! For a lord to abandon his castle? You, Witcher, have you any notion of what such a course of action would demand of me?"

"The displacement of thousands of people," Geralt said in his most respectful voice. "I'm no ruler of any lands, nor do I own anything that's not on my person or strapped to the saddles of my horse. However, I've seen what wars do to the peasantry, the endless caravans, the refugees fleeing across hundreds of miles. Even planned exodus' such as these are rife with difficulties, large and small aplenty."

"You speak such sense and would enjoin I follow your instructions regardless?"

"Geralt is no fool, brother, as you now admitted," Oswell spoke, taking a step forward and standing immediately to the Witcher's right. As per some advice ere the meeting, the Kingsguard kept his voice level. "Were there any other path, he would not speak of leaving Harrenhal. Yet we know what lingers here, seeping into every blackened stone and crevice. Remaining hereabouts when our task begins is tantamount to cutting everyone's throats ourselves."

"Doing nothing is leaving the noose tied around their necks," Geralt resumed. "The nature of the curse is subtle, easy to mistake for a series of unfortunate events. One's inability to tangibly perceive the threat is its deadliest effect. Even from where I come from, such matters aren't always so easily believed."

"Yet I am to do precisely that?" Lord Walter said, his brow furrowing, accentuating the hard lines across his features. "Tell the smallfolk of my lands to flee from what? Bad luck in farming? The terror of tumbling down stairs? Use the spirit of Harren the Black to explain to my vassals why their liege lord flees from his own walls? They will proclaim me a mad man, one and all!"

"Beg your pardon, my lord," Pycelle stepped forward next, his Maester chains clanking against one another. "But you are not alone in this matter. King Aerys and all of the small council have taken the Harrenhal matter quite seriously. Since our arrival, ravens arrive with great frequency, demanding constant news of our mission's progress. If you require word from Kings Landing to aid in these endeavors, to forestall questions and other such issues, such support you shall have."

Aerys won't stand for a refusal to leave if it's necessary to break the curse either, Geralt silently added, a fact Lord Whent was all too aware, even if anger momentarily blinded him to it. I put the fear of it deep into his already paranoid mind. I wouldn't be surprised if he burned every letter sent from here the instant it got read.

"It gladdens my heart to know this," Lord Walter said with no small amount of scorn. "And tell me, will this support extend to rebuilding efforts for Harrentown? Or perhaps finding my family a new castle, assuming anything at all is left of this one?"

"His Grace is not unreasonable," Arthur answered first, lying quite exceptionally. "Long has he heeded my council, Lord Walter, as well as Ser Barristan's. If House Whent requires assistance, I am certain a letter from myself, delivered by my sworn brother, will yield a fruitful result."

To this, the Lord of Harrenhal said nothing, taking a moment to cool himself lest he should send a glare at the Sword of Morning. Not for the first time, Geralt was impressed by the sheer force of the man's reputation. Though he had never witnessed Ser Barristan sway Aerys in-person, his reputation as the king's rescuer from Duskendale was something they could use to their advantage.

"Harrentown will suffer the worst of it," Geralt said, letting the other's words sink into the lord. "Unlike much of Harrenhal, no weirwoods were used in its construction. Homes, barns, taverns, the discharge will spare none of them. Some parts of the castle will suffer more than others. There's no doubt about that. By and large, however, Harrenhal will weather the storm thanks to Harren's own efforts."

Yet even while those words came out, Geralt knew there was more to say, a simple, unavoidable inquiry that required a frank answer. It was a question every Witcher asked themselves on the eve of a contract. A part of him considered the possibility of aid coming from back home, Ciri and Yennefer arriving in his most dangerous hour in Westeros. It was a potentiality but far too up in the air to truly lessen the danger before them.

"I won't deceive you, my lord, even with all we've learned, all we've prepared, this task won't be easy," Geralt continued following a moment's silence, his voice harsher. "It is without a doubt one of the most deadly curse breakings I've undertaken in my life-long time as a Witcher. If you want me to stand here and promise an absolute victory with no chance of failure, you're going to be disappointed. The odds of us all perishing in this endeavor are high."

Something in Geralt's eyes, voice, or demeanor affected the Whent's. Shella's lips parted in a silent gasp, her aged face losing some of its colors. Lord Walter stared, fear and not anger gracing his features for the first time. The forest around them was still, not even the gentle rustle of leaves or the coursing of the stream interrupting the thick silence.

"Which is why further precautions are necessary," He proceeded after a time. "We've already confirmed the potency of the soil, grass, and trees here when it comes to resisting the curse. We'll need more of it, much more. Firstly, to seal off the Tower of Ghosts so as not to allow our enemy a chance to escape there. If we can't finish it in the main hall, we'll do so in Kingspyre Tower. By leaving a trail of leaves, pebbles, dirt across the shortest pathways leading from the hall to Kingspyre and the godswood, we'll increase our chance of safely traversing the castle. Either in pursuit of the wraiths,... Or to escape from them and fight another day."

"You mean to flee from the battle?" Lady Whent inquired. Geralt shook his head.

"Unless things take a monumentally disastrous turn against us early on, the Kingsguard and I are staying inside, finishing the job no matter what it takes. The Grand Maester and Jaime will leave should I deem it necessary. For this reason, they'll require a trail of godswood pieces left. To get them here safely and out of the castle."

Geralt could vividly imagine the stunned gazes from Pycelle and Jaime both, particularly the boy. He didn't acknowledge them, keeping his eyes on the Whent's before him.

"Oswell," Lord Walter said, staring at his brother, resignation and worry in his voice. "This is-"

"What must be done, brother," Oswell cut him off, not unkindly. "Were I a mere knight with no family name or titles, I would choose to stay."

"This is a matter beyond mere oaths and duty, my lord," Arthur spoke, sounding every bit the knight everyone idolized him to be. "There is evil in your home, in the Seven Kingdoms, and it has gone unchallenged for long enough."

"And we're not leaving things up to chance, even if the worst comes to pass," Geralt assured him. "The Grand Maester has learned much from me in the Witcher ways, and more still, I'll impart on him before the curse-breaking commences. If we fail on the first night, the Seven Kingdoms will wield the knowledge to win later."

The lord and lady of Harrenhal fell silent, the setting sun tinging the overhead sky in orange. Lady Shella, already convinced of the situation's severity, required no further convincing. Her husband, whose fingers she entwined slowly with her own, stared past the Witcher, past the Hanse. His fury subsided a while ago, replaced by a grim, focused consideration. The wear of the curse seemed to burden his aged features more than usual. While his resignation visibly grew, so too did Geralt's certainty in the success of their convincing.

"... I will begin making preparations in the morning," Lord Walter eventually spoke, his voice tired but not defeated. "Grand Maester, Ser Arthur, I would ask you send ravens to King's Landing. There will be no shortage of them flying about Harrenhal in the coming days..."

"Of course, my lord," The Grand Maester replied with a bow.

Lord Walter inclined his head to him and the rest of the Hanse. He seemed to linger more on his brother but said nothing. If there was more for the two men to resolve or speak, it was their business. Just as silently, he rose with some effort and turned back towards the depths of the forest. Lady Shella followed after, glancing back at the company.

"Thank you," She said in just above a whisper, or it would have been to anyone besides Geralt. He answered with a smile and watched them leave, their footfalls vanishing into the trees until it appeared they had never visited in the first place.

Now, for the other hard part, Geralt rose as well, preparing himself for the inevitable trouble only children of a certain age could bring.

"I will not leave," Jaime said the moment Geralt turned around, fists clenched at his sides and a defiant glare directed solely at the Witcher. "I refuse."

Not a bad copy of his father's. Too bad he's still a few years too young for it to appear anything more than petulant.

"Jaime-" Arthur smiled amicably, futilely trying to forestall an argument.

"Forgive me, Ser Arthur, but I won't stay silent," The boy's voice cracked just momentarily near the end. "Long have we spoke of this curse, of why we must remove it. I doubted at first this is true, but have I not proven myself regardless? Have I not done all you've asked of me and more?"

"No one could've done it better."

"Then why... Why must I flee...?" Jaime's voice became almost pleading. His white, tightened fingers shook. "How can I leave you all here against such a foe?"

From the corner of his eye, Geralt saw the sworn brothers giving him knowing, sympathetic looks. All three men understood quite well what it was like to be young, impetuous, and stubborn, particularly in the face of anything that could get misconstrued as cowardice. Without a doubt, a young squire leaving the side of the Kingsguard would get seen as such an act.

Words and notions by fools getting young men killed for nothing, Geralt kept his disdain hidden, lest Jaime get the wrong idea.

"I believe there is more to what Geralt intends than we yet know, young Jaime," Pycelle said thoughtfully, running a hand through his beard.

"There is," Geralt said, walking to the two of them. "To the two of you, I have imparted my skills and knowledge to the best of my ability. What a Witcher must know of its prey, how he must fight in the moment, and more."

He placed a hand on their shoulders, glancing meaningfully from squire to scholar. "If I don't make it out of this, you two will be the closest thing Westeros will have to a Witcher."

The words, expectedly, left both of them stunned. Pycelle's gazed at him owlishly, Jaime as though he were mad. Neither, however, argued the point.

"What the crow said to Shella," Oswell said from behind Geralt. "You think it an ill omen...?"

"... When something ends, something else begins," The Witcher said in a low voice, his eyes staring at the visage of the heart tree overlooking the clearing. "The intensifying of magic, the three-eye crow+s promise,... A change is upon these lands. I've felt such shifts in the currents before and based on far lesser evidence. No matter what happens here, Westeros needs a Witcher. Me," He gazed back to his companions. "Or the two of you."

Their silent stares continued a while longer. Pycelle, the first of the two to recovered, bowed his head in silent acceptance and humility at the responsibility. Jaime's defiant anger shrank, the boy looking torn between feeling honored by the responsibility Geralt entrusted to him and knowing what must happen for such a task to befall him.

"Don't worry," Geralt smiled, trying to ease away those dark thoughts running through the boy's head. "I'm not going into this intending to get myself or anyone else here killed. This plan is, as I told Lord Walter, a precaution if the worst comes to pass. If we banish Harren during the initial summoning, this whole affair will conclude in a matter of minutes."

"We've time on our side now," Arthur said. "Our task of inspecting Harrenhal and the surrounding lands is done. Save for writing letters and ensuring the creation of the godswood trails, all we've left to do now is prepare."

"It will take no small amount of time or effort for Walter to leave this place. More than enough for us to continue what we began in the Red Keep," Oswell rested a hand atop his pommel. "I can't be the only one whose sword hand has grown irritable from disuse?"

"Not even close," Geralt replied, smirking and lowering his hands. "We'll be training extensively from tomorrow onwards. To make the most of it, I suggest you all reside here from now on. It wouldn't hurt to gather as much provision as we can either. Once the servants start leaving, we'll have to handle all our cooking."

"I shall abstain from such duties," The Grand Maester smiled ruefully. "I would not wish to inflict such tortures upon you."

The group laughed at the jest. Even the shadow over Jaime passed as he could not help himself. In the days that came after they met with Lord Walter, a great many things came to pass. From Oswell, Geralt learned the less than enthusiastic reception of the older Whent children to the plan, eerily and amusingly similar to their father's. The younger siblings thought it all most exciting. None of them disobeyed their lord father, however, obediently preparing to leave or aiding in those efforts.

In those first days, Pycelle was kept busy along with Harrenhal's Maester, sending letters to and from the castle, relaying news from King's Landing to Lord Walter and the Hanse. Assurances of aid from the Crown got arranged. They had also heard a bit of news Geralt found immediately troubling.

"Aerys wishes to see the curse-breaking?" He asked the Grand Maester during a sparring break with Jaime and the Kingsguard. The very thought of him choosing to come there was simultaneously infuriating and laughable.

"He has not left the Red Keep in years," Arthur commented, wiping sweat from his brow. "He is afeared to even walk its battlements."

"His Grace, along with the small council, shall observe the curse-breaking from afar, the Red Keep to be precise. They desire to witness the discharge of magic."

"Is such a thing possible?" Jaime asked, giving an understandably puzzled look.

"Given the size of Harrenhal, and the amount of power coursing through it,... Yes, our curse-breaking will likely be visible for miles upon miles in the distance. I'd dare say much of Westeros will bear witness to it, one way or another."

"Forgive me," Pycelle faltered, seeming guilty. "I could not shun mentioning it."

"It's fine. So long as Aerys doesn't try to impose anything unreasonable on us from afar, he can observe away." Geralt sighed. Maybe we'll get lucky, and the excitement or fear of beholding will stop the yawning chasm of where his heart is.

Over time, the clearing around the heart tree more and more resembled a proper camp. The Hanse slept and spent most of their time there, using provisions to prepare meals, drink when thirsty, and rest under the night sky. Mornings and afternoons passed in fierce, tireless sparring sessions, the ringing of steel ever-present throughout the forest. The company spent their evenings telling tales or playing dice. Pycelle had proven himself quite adept at the game, earning Oswell's ire several times over.

While their small piece of land became more comfortable to them, Harrenhal itself was the inverse. During the companies outings through its halls to deliver more letters, converse with Lord Whent, or inspect the godswood trails progress, the castle's emptiness grew eerier. Where once sentries stood, there was naught by barely lit torches. Servants who once walked the hallways had left long ago. It became entirely likely and soon a certainty that one could walk for the entire length of hallways without seeing or hearing another living being, even in the lowest levels of Harrenhal.

Lord Walter knew that scattering the citizens with no rhyme or reason would present long and short-term problems. Thus, he organized expressly where and how many of the smallfolk could go where. He, Shella, and their children would await with a host of men at arms in tents specifically prepared to house tourney guests. They wished to remain close to the castle, to offer swift aid if the Hanse succeeded in their attempt. If they did not, the Whent's would retreat south of God's Eye river. To one of the larger towns situated just under the great lake.

If Dandelion were here, he'd compose a ballad on the Carrions of Harrenhal or some such nonsense. Geralt commented during the earliest days, observing and noticing the constant presence of ravens overhead. They too, after a time, flew no more. The kitchens and barracks fell silent, the hearths no longer burned, silence fell upon Harrenhal. On the final day of the exodus, only a few remained inside its walls.

"I would say not to do anything foolish," Lord Walter said, smiling as he and Oswell embraced in the main courtyard of the castle, their men at arms waiting while the Whent's bid farewell to the company. "But it would be wasted effort... Oswell..."

"Aye, I know, brother," The Kingsguard returned the smile, pulling his older sibling back and seeing him for what may be the last time. "These wraiths will see that it means to earn the ire of a Whent."

"I hope to hear it from you in-person," Shella was the next to embrace him, just a hint of tears in her eyes. "Be safe, and come back to us."

"With this lot at my side, I just may."

The rest of the Whent's did the same for Oswell, the older children doing a better job of keeping their emotions in check. The youngsters were not quite strong enough, their cheeks red and noses sniffing as they bid their uncle farewell. Maris Whent gifted both Oswell and Jaime folded pieces of fabric, embroidered with the symbols of House Whent and House Lannister, respectively. The girl was as quiet as a mouse as she bade them both farewell and avoided Jaime's gaze.

If Geralt hadn't already known Jaime's exact whereabouts in the days since the exodus' beginning, he would have worried far more about the gestures meaning. He and Oswell weren't the only ones to gain a lady's favor.

To Geralt, Arthur, and Pycelle, Lady Whent gifted three more pieces of embroidered cloth. Each intricate and beautifully designed, showing the Maester chains, a great sword positioned before the sun, and a white, red-eyed wolf.

"It does not do for a lady to give her favor to multiple men, but," Shella smiled brightly despite the circumstances. "These are... Strange times."

"It is a... Most beautiful gift, my lady," The Grand Maester complimented after a moment's bewilderment, unused to ever receiving such things.

"Quite so," Ser Arthur smiled and bowed, accepting it more gracefully. "You have my thanks, my lady."

"Mine too," The Witcher did the same as his Kingsguard companion, find no small measure of amusement from this being his first lady's favor as a knight, even if the rest were unaware of either fact.

Once Lady Whent left to her horse, only Walter lingered, halting before Geralt. The Lord of Harrenhal seemed unsure as he and Witcher peered at one another. Theirs was a relationship fraught with Geralt upending many things the lord knew, of the world around him, his own family, bringing him one ill omen after another.

It was then, to the Witcher's surprise, that Lord Walter extended a hand to him. "May the Gods watch over you all in the night to come, Witcher, and may your swords strike true."

Geralt shook it. "And may we all celebrate to the success come tomorrow."

"Aye," He laughed, his eyes performing a final sweep of the castle looming over them. "Aye, that would be good..."

In silence, the Hanse watched the last of those who called Harrenhal home vanished into the shadows of the mountainous gatehouse. The figures, banners, and eventually even tramplings of their horses faded into the distance, into nothingness. The morning sun still shined down upon them, accompanied by a warm, comfortable wind. The Witcher was not disturbed to remain in such a place. As he surveyed his companion, it was a gladdening sight to see them prepared as well.

"Let's get inside," Geralt announced, turning towards the flung open main gates, the maw of the great, slumbering beast about to awaken. "We've got work to do."


	23. Chapter 23

The Hanse kept themselves busy with a few last tasks in the first hours since Lord Walter's departure that morning. Jaime and Pycelle transported a few remaining vital pieces of equipment into the main hall from the woodland, inspecting the godswood trail and formation. The rest toiled away with the Tower of Ghosts. To ensure Harren had but one place to retreat, cutting it off was vital. Barrels, filled to the brim with godswood soil, remained within the courtyard.

Thanks to existing, marked borders around the tower, the three men applied the soil with meticulous care. Never letting it spill near the power of the curse. Geralt feared this step. A single misstep could have proven disastrous, bringing discharges and wraiths down on their heads. He didn't dare to breathe easy until midday when the task ended. Their circle of godswood dirt accomplished its duty without fail. Nothing would leak in or out. The overbearing heat that day, however, tempered the gratification of success. Or perhaps they'd simply grown accustomed to the dragon fire's absence under the weirwood's protection.

Oswell wiped away enough sweat to bring forth a second lake. "This damned sun is a pestilence…"

"Won't be getting much colder, not when we're underway."

Arthur sat at Geralt's left, finding refuge in the shade, surviving the heatwave with little more grace than his sworn brother. "You've the right of it, my friend. All the same, we'd best make the most of what peace we've left and retire inside."

So they did, leaving the Tower of Ghosts, courtyard, and outside world behind, venturing forth into Harrenhal's depths. Each footfall rung with a foreboding echo, accentuating the absence of others. The countless unlit hallways appeared closer to cave walls than a castle's. Harrenhal never felt more of an abandoned ruin.

The great hall's center was the exception. Under Oswell's watchful eye in the initial exodus efforts, it became a secondary camp for the company, the starting point of their curse-breaking efforts. It's massive, feasting table the lord's men put aside, replacing it with a meager one, more fitting of a roadside tavern and their small company. Food and drink aplenty ready at hand, and the center point of their plan.

Near it, a circular arrangement of soil, pebbles, dirt, and leaves over thirty feet wide laid atop blackened stones where nobility once gathered, warding off the lingering curse power, a haven when swords became drawn. To the east and west, trails of mud, grime leading to the godswood and Kingspyre Tower connected with the circle, furthering the warding effect.

no-man's-landA secondary configuration, half the size of the first, made its center, inscribed with dozens of elvish runes and Witcher formulae written by Pycelle's very hand. Within this secondary circle, Jaime and Pycelle left the chest from King's Landing and another where Pycelle placed his wraith oil. The third circle of sorts was provided by the weirwoods, support beams, and rafters spread out, forming an area where the curse's strength weakened. A no man's land where they could fight the enemy and the wraiths weren't entirely repelled away from them.

To the three arriving men's delight, they'd also prepared meals and filled goblets. Thus midday passed into the afternoon, in the company of friends and allies, resting as men, not Witcher's. Geralt found this a pleasant change from his usual, solitary, and silent preparation to a point.

"Take care, brother, a sword to swing true requires a sober mind."

Oswell put aside his second cup of wine. "Fear not, Arthur, I'm saving the proper drinking for after we've won."

"I'm aware, the hall is much too quiet for your true revelry."

The Kingsguard laughed, joined by Jaime. The two knights had enough experience to appear and to point to be at ease. Pycelle's tight smiles and half-hearted laughs betrayed a mounting worry. His gaze locked onto the surrounding shadows, the wine cup forgotten. Only a handful of torches, candles, and late afternoon sunlight illuminated the hall. Comrades and the godswood barrier weren't enough to quiet down the gnawing little voice of fear. The curse-breaking was nigh, an event of great importance and danger made aware for them all in exquisite detail. Weeks separating them from it became mere hours.

_A beginner's spirits often waver at imminent peril. Only first-hand experience harden's them, or natural confidence._

He cast a subtle, meaningful glance at Jaime. The boy seemed untroubled, jesting away with Oswell across the table. Geralt knew such an attitude would fade once their fight began and hoped the years of training and survival instinct replaced it, not paralyzing fear. Something even young, full trained Witcher's weren't immune to, as Geralt himself could attest. The scars were proof enough.

The mirth and quiet considerations halted when Arthur Dayne caught their attention by rising to his feet, smiling and glancing between the Hanse members.

"This is... A queer situation we find ourselves in. Dining within an abandoned castle, resting and soon preparing to do battle with wraiths, to banish fell sorcery from these lands..."

"Speak for yourself," The others laughed or smiled at Geralt's friendly interjection, even Pycelle.

"Uncommon but for one in our present company," He amended ere continuing. "A few moons ago, the rest of us would have thought such things fables and legends, tales from ages long since past. To know otherwise, to partake in something worthy of the Age of Heroes, I am not ashamed to admit excitement, fear, and gratitude to all of those gathered around me.

"Old friendships we have strengthened," He focused on Oswell, then the others. "New ones, we have forged a bond of companionship tying us all as one. Pay no heed to what may happen tonight, tomorrow. Find strength and courage in those standing beside you. Now and forever, we are the company of Harrenhal, and in-spite of the challenge ahead of us, I know victory will be ours."

One and all shared in Arthur's toast. The doubts weighing Pycelle down vanished, a fire burning in his eyes. Jaime and Oswell's good spirits intensified, the former's gaze only something a youth staring at his hero could perform. Geralt watched the knight closely, discerning a shrewd glint in the man's eyes. He'd seen it already, with Foltest and other men whose strength of character and voices could work a kind of sorcery for their own troops and comrades. The Witcher, sometimes to his own chagrin but not this time, got swept by it too.

"Your speeches are as good as ever, brother, only, I'd have called us the Curse Breakers of Harrenhal."

"A most appropriate title for a book of our efforts," The Grand Maester spoke for the first time in over an hour, his smile unmissable. "I've no doubt it will become a grand addition to the Citadel's vast collection."

For a while longer, the Hanse spent what little daylight left to them speaking, jesting, and enjoying each other's company. As all good things must, it ended sooner than they realized. When the sunset, they were back at work. They set the chairs, table, and provisions outside the hall, lest the wraiths use them as projectiles. Torches on stone pillars nearby were lit alongside two dozen candles in and out of the circles.

The Kingsguard placed their changed, silver-studded armors on, aided by Jaime. Pycelle busied himself by repeating the chants repeatedly, his elvish polished to near perfection. Geralt, in the meantime, kneeled within the outer circle, facing away from the others. With a practiced, deliberate slowness, he poured the prepared specter oil to a large, clean piece of cloth and rubbed it along the length of his Cat blade and crossbow bolts. The Grand Maester had outdone himself, finding the ingredients and successfully creating proper oils by his third attempt. He'd even produced enough to cover the length of Oswell's silver shield with it.

It was but the simplest variant of the oil. The ingredients for the stronger ones simply didn't exist in Westeros, pieces of monsters, essences, and bags of specific dust or ash. Geralt's own stash of them left behind with Roach. Many potions he would have gladly taken were inaccessible as well. So were the bombs, leaving Geralt with only what he'd brought over on his person: two Moon Dust bombs, a pair of Blizzards, a Petris Philter, and Tawny Owl.

He'd drink the Blizzard when the wraiths appeared, and not a moment sooner. It acted quickly, heightening Geralt's fighting prowess with minor side effects but could not last long. The Petris and Tawny Owl he would refrain from using in the first and hopefully only bout. Theirs was a back-up role. A means to boost his Signs if things spiraled well out of control. The Witcher hoped in-secret to avoid resorting to them. There were entire species of arachnids and snakes whose bites were less toxic than drinking even a single Petris.

To their luck, the wraiths had no idea of Geralt's Signs, nor did Westerosi have an equivalent to them, their sorcery far more rooted in ritualistic spells rather than in the moment casting. His meager spell-casting abilities could more than suffice. Vials, filled with godswood soil, would serve as supplements or replacements for his bombs. Another idea from Pycelle. He even stored several for himself to defende with if the incantations failed.

By the time he'd finished preparing, so too did the others. Pycelle knelt at the heart of the formations, both chests to his immediate right. Arthur and Oswell faced south and west, Jaime eastward.

Geralt knelt before the Grand Maester, sword laid gently within arm's reach. The courage given to him by Arthur held on, Pycelle's gaze resolute, his head nodding for them to proceed. The Witcher returned the gesture, taking a deep breath. Far above them, a large enough crack of the ceiling poured a ray of moonlight over the pair. It was a full moon.

"Cáemm aen hen,..." Witcher and Maester chanted the Elder tongue in-unison, their voices distant, eyes shut and postures stiff. "Cáemm aen hen... Cáemm aen hen!"

A faint gust of wind entered the hall, whistling through the vacant hallways of Harrenhal. It grew louder, stronger alongside the droning. Some torches and candles laid out across the room danced alongside its push and pull, others blown out, and some flames crackled with bursting flashes and sparks.

"Cáemm saov aen tedd,..." The chanting became louder, almost wrestling for supremacy with the howling wind. "Cáemm saov aen tedd... Cáemm saov aen tedd!"

Geralt's amulet quivered, joined by the rattling of the other's armors and Pycelle's Maester chains. The ground around though not directly beneath them, shook. The Witcher heard the cracking of stones, the falling of pebbles, the scuttling of retreating mice and rats in the dark.

"Cáemm dhu bhrenin Harren,... Cáemm dhu bhrenin Harren,..." The Witcher rose, sword in hand, eyes open, his destination the chest from King's Landing. His medallion shook with such vigor it almost seemed alive, but a glance at their surroundings revealed why.

Outside the barriers, lights and colors of unnatural shapes flash and swirled about them. The sounds of thunder and lightning echoed through the passageways and hall even as the overhead sky remained clear. Geralt took out the bait, walking northward to the edge of the second circle. There was a faint noise, moans, and groans, tired, angry, pained. The candles and torches still alight almost hurt to even glance at the shadows cast by them, revealing unnatural shapes.

 _Just a little more,_ Geralt extended his left arm, holding out the bait in its palm. Even through thick, leather gloves, he felt the growing heat in the room, repelled by godswood soil. How could he not, when so much of it entered the skull of a dragon?

The head was scarcely the size of an apple, a miserable, misshappen thing. Short-lived and stunted, a powerless last member of beasts who'd brought this world to heel. So inconsequential, no one ever bothered to name her. Now, the bone pulsated with power, becoming the epicenter of a storm, its minuscule presence drawing the attention of energies friendly and hostile to its attendance. A small flame glowed from inside it. The Witcher focused those powers, building a monstrous shout to come in the deepest recess of his throat.

" **Cáemm... Dhu bhrenin... Harren!** "

With that, the final spark was lit.

* * *

The Burning of Harrenhal, men, women, and children across all the Seven Kingdoms, high and lowborn alike, knew it well. There was never a swifter conquest of a castle or more absolute extermination of its people than the Black Dread searing away the black line into the ashes of history. Even knowing all of this and living under its shadow his entire life, Walter Whent's imagination could never grasp the magnitude of this event.

A fact made painfully clear as he watched it happen before his very eyes.

Neither Walter nor Shella rested since leaving Harrenhal, their gazes ever locked upon the castle with a maddening obsession. They left lunch and dinner uneaten when offered, and orders from either sparse, their oldest sons taking command of the camp for a while longer. They were the first and some few to witness the devastation from its very beginning.

There was no slowness to the change, no time to ready himself. As quickly as a simple torch burst into flame, so too did the castle. Streaks fire sprang to life along the walls, streaking across their entire length. Windows and cracks shined with blinding, white flashes ere belching out plumes of blood-red fire and black smoke high across the night sky. The flames bent in unnatural ways, swaying like waves in an ocean storm, shrinking and rising back up with unceasing fervor, unfathomably higher than even the tallest towers of Harrenhal.

The smoke pillars devoured the moon, spreading across the otherwise clear night sky as ink spilled over the parchment. By now, the entire camp was in dazed silence, watching the stars overhead vanish, the blotting out spreading for many, many more miles. Lightning and thunder cracked, a hailstorm of ash rain descended on them like a locust on fertile soil. Rapidly, the fire's glow looked as if they took a life of their own, changing the black smoke with a thick, bloody red tint.

His force, a sizable command left near enough to the castle to retake it, men he trusted to holdfast under any enemy siege, crumbled. Men screamed and ran, horses inconsolably panicked and neighed. Somewhere in the distance, Walter heard the voices of his sons, calling out to him, Shella, trying to maintain order as a searing hot wind threatened to blow tents and men alike aside.

Even so, the camp's noise could not overpower the castle's.

Moans, dozens, hundreds, echoed from its blackened, blazing walls across his family's lands, the cries of men, women, and children, all in agony. The knowledge these sounds could only come from those long since thought dead, now burning all over again, stunned Walter, freezing the blood in his veins.

 _All our lives... This evil lingered..._ The full brunt of those words, the meaning, and the history behind them crashed down on Walter's very soul like a mace. Several generations of Whent's born and raised with nooses around their necks, an unspeakable, unhuman power poisoning them, condemning them to inevitable doom. Despite all the Witcher said, all he and the others knew, Walter could not, would not grasp it fully.

Now he did, and it broke what little strength he had left. His legs and knees wobbled ere failing him. The lord of Harrenhal fell. He perceived nothing, not even pain, crumbling and lying in the dirt and mounting ash as though struck dead.

"Walter!"

Absently, he noticed his lady wife kneel by his side, struggling to make him rise. The overpowering weariness made it futile. Walter's own flesh was a weight pulling her down instead, soon enough leaving them both lying there, gazing as the fires and smoke rose before and around their lands.

"Father! Mother!" Roland called to them, rushing past the madness of the camp, halting at the sight of burning Harrenhal but for a moment. The lad kneeled by Walter's side, managing what his mother could not, slinging an arm over his shoulders and helping his father rise. "We must do something... Uncle is there. We must help him!"

 _Help them...?_ If Walter had the strength, he would've shouted it. Instead, he only gazed at his firstborn as though Roland was mad. _What can anyone do against this..._

"If it comes to that, we shall, my son," Shella replied. "Your uncle and his companions knew what evil they face. If any in the Seven Kingdoms can halt it, it is they."

"Then we are to do nothing...?"

She rested a hand on their cheeks; her gaze averting theirs from the flames. "We pray, to the olds gods and new, pray and hope they aid us in this time of need. Theirs is a great power, and I do not believe they shall abandon us now."

Walter stared into his wife's eyes. While their home burned and the dead rose to haunt the living, she remained steadfast, an unfaltering conviction lending her strength. Gazing at his child, the surrounding camp, stunned, on their knees or trying to keep order, her fortitude stood out to him all the more. Like a child, he found himself in need of it, clutching to anything certain in times where the word seemed laughable to him.

"... The camp..." Walter's faintly stammered, sounding close to a doddering old man to his ears. Closing his eyes, drawing some strength from a place he knew not where, he spoke again, more forcefully. "The camp... We must restore order here... Once they break the curse, our swift arrival may prove imperative to their survival... There is no telling what wounds they may suffer..."

Walter did not dwell on those dark thoughts, but for a moment. The War of Ninepenny Kings taught him even victory did not heal those already wounded, how even the triumphant laid in pools of their own blood, cut and hacked to pieces. The thought of this befalling Oswell and the others was unacceptable. Roland seemed to calm down, drawing renewed vigor of his own from his parents. Shella smiled, and for a moment, Walter allowed himself to find some small measure of relief.

He would need it. The coming hours would not grow any easier to bear.

The Whent's were not alone in their dazes and frights. Across the riverlands, men, and women, young and old, high and lowborn, gaped in paralyzing horror and uncontrollable fear at the curse-breaking of Harrenhal. Lord and ladies awoke by their men at arms, peasants stirred by the madness of their livestock. Horses bashed against their stable doors and walls, cows and sheep involuntarily produced bloody milk, young calfs shivered in their sleep, many never awakening again.

The slumbering Blackwood's became deathly ill, one and all. Shaking unceasingly in their sleep, cold as corpses to the touch even as they muttered of fire. Past the golden mountain, an iron beast in the guise of a man clawed out and devoured his own eyes before his kin. East of the king's city, across a great sea, a man stared in flames, his wineskin forgotten, flashes of knights and krakens doing battle. Northward, far past the great wall, in the cold, forgotten parts of the earth. An old crow steeled himself for the conflict at hand. In these places and many others, across and near Westeros, the curse-breaking was witnessed or felt.

Most felt dread, some fascination, one terrified those around him.

* * *

Rhaegar and the assembled royal family and small council observed the great, unceasing point of fire burst to life. Shining and vast, it appeared a second sun rose on the horizon, the gathering smoke spreading far beyond the castle's borders, devouring the night sky. The crashing of thunder rang with such force, he could swear the earth was splitting asunder in the distance.

He'd visited Harrenhal several times already, as a boy and man grown, knew how tall its walls and towers reached, for the entire castle to burn as brightly as it did pointed to the flames rising even higher.

_A burning to shame Summerhall in size alone..._

More than ever, Rhaegar desired to be there. Not merely to bear witness to more sorcery as he'd longed for, but to aid his friends. Arthur and Oswell were men he trusted almost more than anyone else. Despite knowing their prowess, and that of Geralt, he could not silence the disquiet gnawing at him, the thoughts of them all burning to ash. In this, he was not alone.

Lord Tywin observed it all with his usual intense focus, betrayed by the rage in his gaze, the almost stone-like stiffness of his entire body. Rhaegar scarcely knew Jaime at all, yet any who understood Tywin could tell his firstborn was the pride of his family. A golden heir for which the lion would do anything, and now, he could do nothing but watch.

Varys looked closer to a corpse, deathly pale, his gaze unceasingly watching the burning lips parted in silent horror. There were many ways Rhaegar could describe the spymaster. Ere that evening, terrified, was never among them. The prince was unsure if Varys was even with them at all. Or had he gone some place very far away inside?

The Kingsguard remained resolute, standing vigil between Aerys and the assembled party, even as they doubtlessly feared for their brothers and even Geralt.

At Rhaegar's side, Elia shivered. Her lips quiver, arms tightly wrapped around his back. The prince could not smile or say anything calming. He could not even reassure himself, silently embracing her tightly instead and hoping it was enough. Theirs was a cordial marriage, and even this simplest of gestures struck him as feeble. A faint gasp drew his attention to the person at his side, standing rightmost of the gathered audience.

Mother looked worse than Varys. This was not the quiet resignation, the dignified acceptance she wore like a mask on the eve of Father's ravagings. She trembled, tears threatening to spill, only narrowly holding back sobs. Years had passed since Rhaegar had seen her this way. Not after Mother commanded him to halt comforting her from Aerys' ravages, lest their meetings provoke Father's wrathful suspicions of treachery.

The king was deathly silent, watching the flames several feet behind the Kingsguard from a wooden throne. Rhaegar reached out to his mother, and though it momentarily pained him to see her flinch at the touch, a smile many years unseen of genuine gratitude gladdened his heart.

The warmth turned to ice when the laughter arose.

Aerys' snigger transformed into a chortle, then blossomed into a loud, throaty howl. With unseen vigor, an almost child-like excitement, he rose from his chair, walking to the very edge of the walls. Everyone watched him, struck by fear, surprise, and perhaps even hope he would fall off the edge. He did not, resting taloned palms atop the red rocks, laughing all the while.

"This is it...!" He shouted between snickers. "It has returned! The power of dragons burns again. Do you not see it?!"

The lickspittles dared to laugh with him. All others, with any sense, stared in icy dread at the sheer joy on Father's face, the kind warmth of his smile, the passion in his voice, the tears in his eyes flowing freely. He cared not for their stunned silence, gazes of abject, horrified fascination Aerys was in a world all his own and turned back to its source with renewed mirth.

"Grandfather was right! He merely chose the wrong castle! Gods bless you, Witcher, I'll make you a lord of the realm for this!" The king roared, spreading his arms wide towards the fire as if embracing an old friend long thought gone.

 _To him... it is..._ Rhaegar swallowed the shard of ice in his throat, unable to escape the certainty Harrenhal was but the start of something much, much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The Elder Speech used here means as follows:
> 
> Cáemm aen hen - Come Old One
> 
> Cáemm saov aen tedd - Come Spirit of Old Times
> 
> Cáemm dhu bhrenin Harren - Come Black King Harren


End file.
